In The Presence Of Angels
by michellemybelle25
Summary: After the final scene, Christine returns to the opera to save Erik and is once again torn over what her heart truly wants.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own the characters; they were borrowed from various versions of Phantom of the Opera.

OK, so I promised a longer story, and here you go. I actually wrote this one 5 years ago! I can't believe it's been that long, but I have spent a LONG time editing it and brushing it up. You wouldn't believe how much your writing style can change in 5 years! Anyway, this particular story is really a happy ending story that starts where the musical ends. It is rated mature for upcoming segments, not these first couple of parts. This one means a lot to me because this is the story that I always go to when my insomnia kicks in; I just think through its scenes, and for some strange reason, it calms me down! I really don't know why! So I guess you could say that this one really holds a special place in my heart and my irregular sleep patterns!

I am posting the first two segments of this one today, and during the next week, I will put up the rest in a couple more posts. I did say it was long! It's like a mini-novel! Also, for people who have been very nice about reading the stories I've been posting pretty much on a weekly basis, I have to take a small hiatus from posting anything new for the next few weeks after this story. I really need to start writing my new novel, and for some reason, I can't creatively write one thing and edit another at the same time. My brain won't work that way! So I hope you enjoy this story, and I promise more new stuff in a few weeks!

SUMMARY: After the final scene, Christine returns to the opera to save Erik and is once again torn over what her heart truly wants.

"In the Presence of Angels"

"Go! Leave this place! Leave your fallen angel in peace! Go now!" Erik's beautiful voice roared and echoed off of the damp walls of the catacombs. This was a command, and Erik's commands were never to be argued with, as Christine well knew. But why argue? Wasn't this what she and Raoul had been fighting for? Wasn't this the ending that they had wanted? …And yet why was there nothing but a despondent aching attached to its reality? And why wasn't happiness even an option to consider at the moment…?

Even as she was hesitating, Raoul did not pause to give Erik the opportunity to change his mind. He could already hear the callings for blood from the impending mob. They were getting close…, too close. He would have killed the disfigured freak himself if he had had the opportunity, but he had little doubt that the mob would certainly succeed where he had not and end this nightmare for him.

Grabbing Christine by the arm, the Vicomte de Chagny in the wet and tattered remains of his finest suit with rope burns marring the flawless skin of his throat began to pull her toward the lake. That stupid monster had trapped himself here to await his own demise by insisting that he and Christine take the one and only means to escape. And as far as Raoul was concerned, it was only justice being served.

"Wait, Raoul, wait!" Christine suddenly shouted at him as they arrived at the boat haphazardly resting on the shore.

"We have to go now!" he yelled back at her, retaining his viselike grip on her arm even as she struggled urgently to pull free. "Come on!"

"No, wait!" Christine was frantic. Her gaze was locked on Erik, who stood somberly just up the shore with eyes that never left her silhouette despite the foreboding noises of danger echoing about them. He wouldn't flee the mob's approach; she was already certain of that.

"Damn it, Christine!" Raoul was yelling as she yanked and twisted in his hold. "We can't wait any longer!" Before she could manage to break loose, the Vicomte abruptly caught her around the waist and nearly heaved her over the boat's side, warning as he did, "Stay put! I'm saving your life, or are you so eager to die at his side?"

It was the bitterness and the utter blame in his voice that kept Christine from arguing even as every bit of her screamed to leap out and race back to Erik. Raoul was hurt, and he was angry; she knew that he had every right to be. He had been a step away from death's door tonight, and as he had fought to hold on to life for her, to save her, he had had to watch as his faithful fiancée had chosen another man and had sealed her vow with a kiss. It couldn't have been pleasant, to say the least.

Raoul shoved the boat into the water and climbed in with her, poling inexpertly away from the shore's sandy bed, and as the boat jolted and rocked in an erratic bob, she couldn't help but compare his awkward skills with the smooth grace of Erik's on their every trip to his home.

Erik! Scooting to the very edge of her seat, Christine turned back and met her angel's anguished eyes. He had made no move to hide himself, as if all ability had left him with her. Even with the growing distance between them, his mismatching eyes were bearing into her, branding her skin and searing her to her core. It was as if he was touching her with eyes alone, and not just one touch in one place, but everywhere all at once. Never did he try to conceal the depth of his emotions, never hiding the contorted features of his malformed face as though to insist that in letting her go, he had killed himself already. He _wanted_ her to see what losing her was costing him, and how her heart throbbed in the deepest recesses of her chest in resounding reply!

The boat was moving toward a tunnel. Christine knew that her view would soon be severed completely and lost, but as she was still a willing spectator to a scene already in progress before her, she caught a glimpse of the glow of torches coming from an opposite tunnel. Within moments, splashes met her ear intermixed with vulgar shouts and murderous death calls as the men leading the mob through the catacombs came into view like actors emerging from the wings in their grand entrance.

"Raoul, the mob!" Christine called desperately over her shoulder without ever looking away.

But the Vicomte was too preoccupied muttering curses beneath his breath and fighting to keep the boat moving onward to give her much notice. It was a nearly impossible feat to refrain from veering sideways at every stroke of the pole through the water's dark, ink-like surface, and one more swerve to the right brought another inaudible string of indecent crudities huffed through a clenched jaw.

With the shouting of the mob ringing in her ears, Christine could do nothing more than beg through a shared, unbreakable gaze alone for Erik to run. Tears poured down her face as she desperately shook her head, watching in muted horror as the first ones of the group made their way onshore. The men did not hesitate or wait for the others to join them; they simply went after Erik, fists bared, vengeance begun.

"No!" Christine screamed in terror though no one heard or cared. But Erik never looked away from her horrorstricken expression, not even when the first punch struck his gut or the second one or the third. No, it was not until the full mob closed around him and therefore barred his view of her that their stare was broken.

"Raoul!" Christine shouted, turning only then to grab at the Vicomte's tattered remains of a shirt with desperately clawing fingers. "Turn back! You have to turn back! They're going to kill him!"

"Good riddance," the Vicomte snapped with a sneer of impatience as the boat once again careened sideways out of his control.

"How can you say such a thing?" she retorted, yanking incessantly on his sleeve. "You have _no_ right to decide if he should live or die! And neither do they! Now turn around, Raoul! We have to stop them!"

"Stop them? You naïve fool! You're right to assume that I don't care about his worthless life, but I _do_ care about yours, and I'm getting you out of here." He didn't dare pause in his poling, steering them forward again, as he continued to insist harshly, "That mob is out for revenge, and they want blood. What do you think they'll do to you if you go back there to defend him and in _his_ wedding dress of all things? They'll likely string you up right with him. They don't want words and explanations, Christine; they want violence and death. I will _not_ let you die for that monster!"

"But, Raoul-," she protested, still clutching his sleeve with hands that would not cease in their constant shaking.

"Sit down!" the Vicomte roared back at her. "Before you get us _both_ killed!"

She wanted to argue, to scream at him, to jump off the boat even if she drowned in the lake in her folly of an attempt. At least she'd die trying to save Erik instead of sitting helplessly and idly in this boat knowing that he could be dying at that exact moment. But then she looked at Raoul; he was so focused on getting her to safety. If her foolishness got him killed as well after all she had put him through, she knew that she'd never be able to forgive herself. She was already doomed to carry the guilt for what she'd mercilessly done to Erik upon her narrow shoulders for the rest of her life...; she was sure that she could not endure to hold anymore.

Weary to the bone, she sank back down onto her seat. They were within the tunnel now, and out of view of the mob, but the shouts still rang deafeningly in her ears, blotting out every thought or mental escape. …She was listening to Erik die….

With tears pouring silently down her cheeks in unending rivulets, Christine hung her head in her hands and covered her ears tightly with her palms to block out the noises as she rocked inconsolably back and forth on the cushioned seat of Erik's boat, alone….

_"Music is not about the notes on the page or the pitches we sing. It is about what is inside of the soul. It is about baring the innermost essence of yourself. And it is about letting it into your very being beneath skin and bone, deeper yet until it possesses every bit of you…. When you can do that, Christine, when you can let music play through the very heart of you, then you'll be the greatest singer ever to grace the opera stage…."_ Erik's words played in Christine's head as she gazed distractedly up at the high canopy of her bed in the de Chagny mansion.

It was nearing dawn; the sky was just beginning to show some form of brightening off in the distance, but she had yet to fall asleep. She couldn't even make a half-hearted attempt. Every time she closed her eyes even just for the briefest moment, she saw the mob etched to perfection behind her lids, saw them as they surrounded Erik, saw his sorrowful eyes as he watched her leave, uncaring to the peril he had placed himself in. She couldn't make the visions cease or quit the uncontrollable unraveling of the torturous thoughts that they brought with them and the desperate need to know what had happened after she had lost sight of the scene.

She hadn't been able to discuss her agony with Raoul. He had brought her out of the opera house and to his home in utter silence, and his only parting words had been that she would feel better and more like herself after a good night's rest. Didn't he understand how impossible that was? Or that no amount of sleep could make her forget what had happened? It was a trauma scarring her soul for the rest of her life.

Minutes dragged by, each laden with more weight than the last, and as the sky grew lighter with the impending sunrise, Christine started to hear footsteps creaking the floors beneath hers, and hushed voices that carried like a droning hum through the thin walls. She had little doubt that she herself was the topic of much of the bustling conversation through the servant's quarters. When she and Raoul had arrived the previous night, only a few of the many staff had still been awake to greet them. Surely by now, everyone would be talking about the strange late night return of the Vicomte de Chagny and his opera singer fiancée clad in a dirty wedding gown upon their arrival.

And what of the papers? Their morning headlines were certain to be filled with news of the bizarre premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and the disfigured, murdering singer who had usurped the lead role midway through the halted performance and had carried off the star soprano. Dear Lord, the scandal of it all, and her name would be right in the center of it! And if Raoul had considered that he had brought such cruel gossip upon his family and their good name by announcing that he would wed an opera singer, now…now it could only be far worse….

Christine sighed to herself and cuddled deeper beneath the covers of her bed. No, she couldn't think of those terrible things now, not Raoul, not the consequential reaction of the rest of the world. The entire situation seemed like some horrible nightmare that couldn't possibly be real, and she could feel in the deepest depths of her soul that it was not yet over. There was still more to come….

As the sun came over the horizon, its warm rays gleaming over the snow-covered landscape of early winter, the exhaustion of the night's events finally started to take its toll, and despite her aversion to sleep, she felt herself slipping away into its arms, lacking the strength to resist it any longer….

_"Christine!"_

Her eyes shot open, and she darted up in bed with a start, clutching the bedcovers to her chest with violently shaking hands. She couldn't seem to remember how to breathe, gasping in great gulps of air as her heart raced at a frantic pace against her ribcage.

It was a dream, only a dream, and yet it felt so real that reality still felt blurred at its corners. Had she truly slept long enough to dream? One glance at her table clock showed her that it had become midday at some point. How could that be? She only remembered dawn and closing her eyes for a brief moment…and in a flash, a dream….

What had she seen in that surreal, intangible state of faux existence? Was it a vision of what had truly happened, or was it only a figment of a tortured mind lacking conclusions? She had been back in the catacombs with Erik as he was forcing her to leave with Raoul. Even though the events had unfolded exactly the same and she had reluctantly obeyed, a part of her had remained behind. Like a wayfaring spirit, she had watched Erik as he had stared after the boat. …And then the mob had come, a dark plague suffocating life in their onslaught, and as she had watched, they had attacked Erik with fists and kicks. She had seen every punch, every assault. She had seen Erik fighting to catch one more glimpse of the boat even as they had forced him to the ground beneath their strength, shouting obscenities at him and vulgar names under an unending barrage of punches. He hadn't fought back; he had only taken their assault like a bitter poison, stoic always, even as his body endured every hit. Never a tear, never even a glance in their direction. Observing this beating without the ability to interfere in its course, she had heard the revolting crashes of fists into flesh, the cracks of bones, the splashes of blood, and she had silently cried tears for his pain, the ones he himself had not shed. Finally, as the mob had given up, leaving him a lump of broken flesh on the hard, cold ground, she had thought it to be over and him to be dead when suddenly without warning, his mismatched eyes had shot open, and he had called her name in a haunting whisper, breaking dreams and stirring her back to consciousness with the hollow timbre of a once-golden voice.

She was still shaking; her body couldn't seem to relax, and in her mind's eye, she could see that last vision from her dream of that disfigured face and the blazing intensity of those eyes. He was alive; it had been her first thought upon awaking, and she had felt so sure in that moment that it was true. Now as her wits were returning, she bore the fleeting wisps of doubts over the validity of such a revelation. It was a dream; rationale argued that it had just confused an already tormented mind. And yet…. The feeling was still so acute even when the words were contradicted. Was it possible?… Could he have survived such an assault?… If he was indeed alive, then he wouldn't be for much longer, not if he was alone and injured, not without anyone to help him, …to save him.

Throwing back the covers, Christine stumbled out of bed and began to search for something to wear, knowing her wardrobe currently consisted of one torn and dirt-smudged wedding dress and the meager undergarments she had gone to sleep in. Part of her had concluded the wedding dress as her only option, and yet conveniently enough, there was a gown awaiting her, draped nonchalantly across her chaise probably brought in while she had slept. It was odd to her to be around such a luxury as money. Most likely, the Vicomte had sent out his servants to buy her new clothes that morning as if it was the simplest of things. And when she married Raoul, she would have such frivolous liberties at her own fingertips as well. …Strangely, it did not please her.

Hasty in her actions, Christine washed and dressed with fingers that fumbled in their rush and inability to cease shaking. The pale blue gown was made of the softest, richest material she had ever felt, and yet to her, it only felt confining as if the de Chagny name and title were equally as fitted into every stitch and yard. The style befitted the status of a future Vicomtesse, and standing before the vanity mirror as she combed through her tangled curls and tied them back with a simple ribbon at the nape of her neck, she refused to fully acknowledge a view of the girl looking back; she would only appear a stranger.

Quickly finishing her task and draping a cloak over her arm without a thought to its sudden appearance as well, Christine hurried out of the room and down the hall with steps that barely whispered across the plush carpet.

"Mademoiselle?" one of the maids called out sharply just as she reached the foot of the stairs with escape in plain sight. "Where are you off to?"

Christine could easily see that the girl was not very fond of her or her presence in the house, but she forced herself to stand tall and stately and adopted the role her current costume entitled her to hold as she insisted, "I have an errand to run. Will you tell the Vicomte that I will return shortly?"

Shaking her head haughtily in abrupt retaliation, the maid retorted, "No, the Vicomte is not at home at the moment, and he said that you were not to leave until he returned."

Christine could not hide her disappointment and her sudden flare of anger. It may not be a mature reaction to throw fits of tantrum, but she had the hardly repressed urge to stomp her foot in irritation. It hardly seemed fair for Raoul to set such a command over her…, unless, of course, he had thought that she would do just this and run back to the opera house at the first chance she got.

Straightening her shoulders with an actress' air of confidence in place, she demanded, "And when do you expect him back?"

"I cannot say, Mademoiselle. He left right after he had his breakfast and did not reveal his plans. He only said that you were not to leave under any circumstances."

"…All right," Christine reluctantly conceded with a soft huff. "I will await him in the study. Please send him to me the moment he returns."

"Yes, Mademoiselle." The snooty maid gave a meager bob as her curtsy and went off to continue her work, glancing idly over her shoulder at Christine at every step.

As soon as the girl was out of sight, Christine's noble stance deflated with her first breath. Was this what she had to look forward to when she married Raoul? Would the servants always treat her so rudely? Of course, she was well aware why they did. She was an opera singer, a public entertainer, and they were the servants to one of the richest households in Paris; they saw their place to be above hers. To them, she would only ever be an imposter to the role as Vicomtesse…. Maybe they were right.

For over an hour, Christine impatiently waited in the study. She couldn't keep herself still, jittering from one end of the room to the other, sitting, then standing, then pacing, then sitting again. She felt like a caged tiger, forced to denounce its natural tendencies.

Finally, she heard a carriage pull to a stop at the front door, and racing to the window, she peered out in time to see a grinning Raoul emerge and stroll idly up the front walk. Before the maid had even entered the foyer to welcome him, she ran to greet him herself, throwing open the front door and darting halfway down the walk to his side.

"Christine!" Raoul exclaimed with surprise at her sudden presence. "You know, we have maids to open doors."

She knew that he was only teasing, but she couldn't keep a blush of embarrassment from lighting her cheeks. "I…I know, but I was waiting for you, and-"

"Yes, I missed you, too," he interrupted with a sweet smile, catching her hand in his. "Come to the study with me. I have wonderful news."

It was foolishly ridiculous of her to consider that his news could be about Erik, but that was her first thought as she let him return her to the confines of the house and back to the study, overhearing the snickering of the maids in her wake from the foyer's far shadowed corner.

"Were you going someplace?" Raoul apprehensively asked, and she saw that his attention had landed on her cloak lying unthreateningly across the couch.

"No, …well, maybe," she stammered, dragging her hand from his and clenching both fists in the material of her skirts to keep him from noticing how they continuously shook. "What…what is your news?"

"Oh, yes." Raoul seemed to quickly forget the cloak as the smile returned to his face and brightened every dark line that the past months and their traumas had created. "It's wonderful news! Wonderful indeed! I wanted to surprise you. I have been out this afternoon, arranging passage for us on a boat to London. I thought that we could marry once we were there and go on an extended holiday, first London, then Spain, then Italy, and anywhere else that pops into your head. We'll see the world over if you like. How does that sound?"

"Leave?" Christine was adamantly shaking her head from side to side. "No, …no, Raoul, we can't. I-"

"Why?" the Vicomte interrupted and came to stand before her, catching her hands again and prying her fingers from her skirts to clasp them in a necessary hold. "Christine, you're trembling…. What's wrong? Did something happen?"

His concern was endearing to her in its genuine air, and yet no amount of sweet words or kind gestures could calm her racing pulse.

In a soft, hesitant whisper, she revealed, "Erik is alive."

"What?" Concern was transforming to anger, and his grip on her impulsively grew tighter until his fingertips were digging into her knuckles with his hold. "What do you mean? …Was he here? Did he come to see you?"

Christine was staring at him with wary eyes, unable to reply for an apprehensive breath; she had expected protests from him, denials perhaps, but not anger. Finally finding a wavering voice, she stammered, "No, it…it was…. I had a dream, Raoul, …but not just a dream…, a premonition. He's alive; I know it to be true. I can feel it. And he needs…help; …he needs me."

As quickly as the rage came, it vanished from sight, and with a heaved sigh of relief, the Vicomte smiled at her once again, loosening his grip as if he had never lost his temper at all. "A dream. Christine, you worried me so much; I thought I was going to lose you again." Smiling even brighter still, the Vicomte leaned in close to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "My poor, addled girl. You've been through quite an ordeal these last few days, and your poor mind is confusing you. He's dead, my darling; he'll never hurt you again."

But she shook her head with her undimmed determination and abruptly insisted back, "I'm not confused. I know it as sure as I know that I myself am living and breathing. Erik _is_ alive, Raoul."

It was plain on the Vicomte's face that he didn't believe her, but he softened skepticism to a continued cajoling and gently bid, "He's not. It is only natural to have nightmares and to be afraid after such a ghastly ordeal. I know that you're terrified that he will come after us and carry you off to his underground prison, but you needn't be, Christine. I'm going to protect you from any dangers that ever try to touch us, and I'm going to make all of your nightmares disappear for good. That is why I want to take you away from here, so that you can learn what it is to feel safe and happy again."

"But Erik-"

"Is dead," he interrupted with a bit of impatience. "That mob beat him to death."

"You don't know that for sure."

"We heard it; hell, we practically watched it happen." Taking a deep breath for calmness' sake, Raoul released one of her hands to cup her face in his palm lovingly, stroking his thumb delicately along her cheekbone as if she were made of glass. "Leave all the worrying about monsters and darkness to me. I'm going to keep you safe, I promise. Now we must get ready to make our ship on time. Let me just collect a few things, and we'll be off."

Staring at him somberly, Christine pulled out of his grasp, backing away slowly a step at a time with knees that shook beneath her weight and her forced attempt at bravery. It was certainly new and uncommon to put such conviction in place, but she could not continue to be the lifeless marionette, letting everyone else pull her strings to one place or the next, not on this issue at least. "I'm not going, Raoul."

"What do you mean?"

She straightened her posture, taking on the confidence that she had spent far too long lacking and proclaimed firmly and resolutely, "I'm going back to the opera house to look for Erik."

"Christine-" Raoul began to protest.

"No, Raoul, no!" she interrupted, clenching unbreakable fists in the air between them. "I haven't lost my mind, and I am _not_ confused. Erik is alive; I know it, and I will not be able to live the rest of my life or even marry you until I go to him. I will _not_ abandon him to die. …He doesn't deserve that."

"But the people he killed did?" Raoul demanded, matching her tone without regret. "Even if he is still alive, and it is a far chance to even consider he could be, what do you propose to do, Christine? Go to him and nurse him back to health until he is strong enough to kidnap you and force you to be his bride all over again?"

"I haven't thought about that yet!" she nearly shouted. "All I can think right now is that he is alone and he is in pain, and I can't leave him to die. I already did that once."

The Vicomte did not mistake the bitterness in her comment directed solely at him, sharply explaining, "I was protecting you. If we had gone back, we would have been killed as well."

"Maybe," she replied softly. "Maybe…." Tears were rimming her blue eyes, and for the first time, she let Raoul see the true extent of her pain, like a gaping wound in her chest as poignant as any physical malady. In a hushed whisper, she breathed, "I can't live my life until I see, Raoul. Please understand that. And if I am wrong, …if he is…dead, then I need to see that as well…. It will torture me until I know."

The Vicomte was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but when he finally spoke, all he said was, "All right, Christine, but I am going with you."


	2. Chapter 2

It seemed like an eternity until they arrived in the dark corridors of the catacombs, and all that she could think was that every moment they wasted was another moment that Erik spent alone. In her many frequent trips to his home, the journey had never seemed to be as tedious or as long as it did with Raoul as her companion. The Vicomte had not posed any other argument to her little crusade, but Christine had watched as before they had left the de Chagny mansion, he had made it a point to arm himself with a sword, a gun, and a hidden dagger in his boot. He was obviously taking no chances this time.

Gathering her cloak closer to her shivering body to protect from the bitter chill, Christine led the way with a lantern in hand, wanting only to rush ahead while Raoul was being exceedingly slow and guarded with every step. A harsh exhalation laden in her perturbation escaped her, and she noted with a level of urgency how her breath puffed a cloud in front of her. Lord, it was frigid! It was even colder in these damp corridors than it was outside in the darkening winter evening. And her poor angel was suffering the cold near death and injured with no one to help him!

"Raoul, come on," Christine urged on the wings of her thoughts.

The Vicomte was distracted and scanning every dark crevice around them, and as she waved her hand anxiously in his direction to make him comply, she watched him draw forth his sword and hold it on guard.

"What are you doing?" she demanded as if he had lost his mind entirely.

"Sshh," he retorted sharply, never once granting her a look, and keeping his voice low and hushed, he explained, "Anyone could still be lurking in these cellars after last night's raid. I'm only being cautious."

"Raoul, it's freezing down here. I doubt that anyone would choose to remain."

"Well, we can't say that for certain, so better to be ready for an attack than an unsuspecting victim, …as I have well learned."

She huffed again with her annoyance, but did not waste any more time arguing with him.

Finally, they arrived on the bank where they had abandoned the boat the night before, finding it thankfully still intact and awaiting them.

As Raoul reluctantly put his sword away and began to push the boat back into the water, he was muttering half to himself, "I hope you appreciate what I am doing for you, Christine. I had hoped never to pole a boat again after last night's ordeal. It is not one of my strong points."

Even as Christine could not help but roll her eyes a bit behind his back, she answered convincingly, "Yes, Raoul, I know, and I am very grateful for your patience in following my ridiculous whim."

"Well, I love you, and I'll do whatever I must to make you happy." Though he said sweet words, the sentiment was lacking. "And though we've missed our boat to London and therefore have wasted our tickets, I can get us new passage for the very next ship leaving the harbor once this chapter of our lives is closed and over. You have no further argument to that, I hope?"

"No, …no argument," she replied softly, staring at his back as he worked with cold eyes. This was not how she had envisioned things would be between them: barely tolerating one another's company and speaking of their future as if it was a punishable sentence equivalent to prison rather than a happy ending. And even as she was agreeing to a London trip with Raoul, her mind wasn't even there; no, it was preoccupied with thoughts of Erik and finding him. …And what would happen then? She was not going to simply abandon him just as quickly. If he needed her care, then there was nothing more to say, and London was out of the question as far as she was concerned. But she kept such musings to herself…, for the moment at least.

The boat was bobbing idly in the water, and Raoul helped her to climb in without wetting her boots, leaping in after her and lowering the pole into the eerily still, dark water. Christine stared at its translucent surface bemusedly while the pole disturbed its rest to create running ripples of motion that danced farther and farther away from them. If the catacomb air was this bitter, then she had no desire to learn just how cold the water was; it was likely some sort of miracle that it hadn't frozen to a sheet of ice instead.

Their current trip over the underground lake was significantly smoother than their last one. Without an angry mob to elude in the background, Raoul was able to keep their course relatively straight as he maneuvered through the tunnels, somewhat proud of such an accomplishment. But as he sought to share his self-appreciation with Christine, glancing in her direction, he noted that she was not paying any heed to him at all. They had already approached the last opening that would put them in view of Erik's home, and Christine had scooted to the nearest edge of the boat, holding her lit lantern out over the water and hoping with an incessant desperation that it would cast enough light for her to catch a glimpse of what awaited them.

The stone walls on either side parted, and she was assaulted with memories of Erik's form on the shore, watching her leave him, his silhouette practically emblazoned into the molecules of air in the exact position where he had stood. Her dim light cast dark shadows on the walls and skipped ahead of their boat upon the water's surface, but she could barely make out the distant shoreline. Everything was dark; that was her first hint that something was not right. Always when Erik had brought her down to the house, warm firelight would have been filtering out from the doorway and cracks in the stone. Firelight, welcoming her home. But there was no welcome or pleasant greeting this time. She could smell the lingering fumes of the burning torches the mob had carried, and to her horror, the faintest metallic scent of blood was interwoven. The closer they got to the coast, the more the smell grew in pungency, the traces of smoke making her eyes water until she had to cover her nose with her gloved hand in a desperate attempt to block it from entering her lungs.

"Can you see anything?" Raoul asked and then coughed as the smoke lightly coated his throat.

"No," she replied softly, leaning farther over the boat's edge with her light. The shoreline was becoming brighter and easier to define, but unlike in her dream, there was no trace of Erik. In fact, as they started to pull near to the shore, she saw that it was vacant entirely of life, but to her horror, many objects from Erik's home, some of them precious and evocative, were scattered about in disarray. She was suddenly terrified to learn what sort of destruction the mob had left in its wake.

Raoul could see the despair growing on her face as he brought the boat in to shore, and though he wanted to comfort her, he didn't. No. Because he knew that no matter what she said or did, she didn't want him there with her. This entire nightmare would never be over for either of them until she saw that the disfigured monster was dead and gone from their lives for good; only then would she be able to truly and fully be his. …And then…then he could comfort her.

As soon as the boat hit the sand, before Raoul could even offer his help, she leapt out and scurried up the shore to the spot where Erik had stood.

"Christine," Raoul called, scampering after her. "Slow down. You don't know what you're going to find."

Falling to her knees on the soft sand, she didn't give a single consideration to sullying the rich material of her new gown as its smooth perfection was smudged and stained. All she could think was that in her dream, Erik had been laying in this place, hurt but alive. …If he wasn't there, then where could he be?

A gasp suddenly escaped her, and as he quickly crouched beside her, Raoul worriedly demanded, "What? What is it?"

"Blood," she whispered solemnly. Tearing off her gloves, she touched a stain in the sand, feeling the fine grains slip between her fingers where the deep brown marred its natural light color.

"Christine," Raoul gently crooned, "let's just go home, darling. …It isn't good for you to be here."

But she wasn't paying attention; she only continued to study the sand's imperfections intently, desperate for an answer in their inconstant bed. Wait…. Was that…? Grabbing her lantern in her shaking hand, she scooted a few paces, smearing her skirts with her every movement. And there it was! Another spot of blood came into view, this one a larger, longer streak. And a few more inches away, there was another. And then another.

Christine was half-crawling and half-stumbling further up the shore with the confused Vicomte following close behind and decidedly walking upright so as not to dirty his own attire.

"Christine, this is ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "There's no one here. He's dead, dead and gone and good riddance. The mob probably tossed his body into the lake or, better yet, took it with them to string it up as a public display."

Abruptly halting in her endeavors, she glared at the Vicomte, cold and biting, and snapped back, "Stop saying he's dead! He's alive, Raoul! I would know it if he weren't."

He heaved a dramatic sigh of supplication and bid with an uncontrollable bite of impatience, "All right. Don't be so sore about it. We'll stay here as long as you need to find your answer."

But she knew that he was only attempting to pacify her, her expression never softening in its stare. It wouldn't surprise her at all if he were to suddenly change his mind and make her leave with him, by force if necessary. He could never understand….

Resuming her task without further consideration to her aggravated fiancé, Christine trailed her fingers up the sandy embankment alongside another streak of blood. This one led her toward the dark shadow in the backdrop that was Erik's house. How she wished that she had more light to guide her! Her lantern was insignificant against such darkness, keeping only a pool of a glow that barely surrounded her shape, but even without sufficient illumination, she could see that the door to the house was open, thrown wide as if it had been bent back on its very hinges. And that was where the path of blood was guiding her.

For the first time, she hesitated. She had been so determined in her endeavors, driven on by sheer will and a dream, but now…. She was suddenly terrified. This was reality, not another escape of subconscious, or so she told herself, taking a deep breath as her heart fluttered erratically against her ribs. And yet despite her every trepidation, she knew that she couldn't leave; no, no, not until she saw, …until she knew.

Gathering up any remaining bravery she possessed, she stood up tall and adamant and slowly stepped into Erik's home.

It was a disaster, an absolute tragedy. Scattered upon the now-stained carpet were fragments of Erik's beautiful treasures and broken bits of furniture. The silver dome from one of his statues from India was shattered in one randomly tossed place, the intricately carved leg of her favorite sitting chair was poised without its back beside it…. Dear Lord, resting so unthreateningly at her feet seemed to be one of the pipes of Erik's brilliant pipe organ. …All destroyed and lost forever.

Tears pricked Christine's eyes, gathering quickly in pools and then silently spilling down her cheeks. It was all gone…, and what did that mean about the fate of her angel? The mob had been so violent, so heartless…. And Erik…. She couldn't even fathom what sort of pains he had had to endure, …and all because he loved her….

Raoul had entered the house behind Christine, watching as she surveyed the tragic scene with blue eyes that bore a sadness that seemed to have no end. It extended like a vast, seamless void within her…. And he felt jealousy in a sharp strike driven to his gut because he knew that if things had been reversed and he himself had been victim the previous night, her pain would have had an ending point, forming a small gash within her and not existing as the bottomless chasm she now suffered instead.

Without a word, the Vicomte came up behind her and lightly set his hand upon her shoulder, and almost immediately, she jerked away and flipped around to face him. Her eyes bore such hope, a smile looming on the horizon, and yet when she saw that her companion was only Raoul, that expression instantly fell and the tears came faster.

"There's nothing that can be done now, Christine," Raoul attempted, concealing his own rush of pain from her observation. "Let's find him…if he still remains here, …so you can say goodbye…."

Tears dripped from her jaw and wet the thick wool of her cloak, but she only gave a single, empty nod. Goodbye…. How could she possibly say goodbye…?

Slowly, she turned her haunted stare to the dark hallway before her. How many times had she followed Erik down this very corridor to his music room for her lesson? …The music room….

It was as if a new spark of living energy flowed through her, and leaving Raoul to chase behind her in confusion, she hurried down the hallway to the room at the very end. Dark, dark, so dark. She nearly tripped over the various items littering her path, and arriving in that last doorway, she held her lantern as far from herself as she could, letting her eyes survey the scene frantically. She didn't want to say the word and voice a hope, for fear that it would be stolen away just as quickly, but her eyes were growing more and more frenzied in their perusal. There were pipes everywhere and chunks of wood from the organ, …and amidst it all was a dark shadow….

"Oh, God," she whispered, and in her next breath, she was stumbling into the room. _Oh, dear God, please…._

Realizing her intentions, the Vicomte called after her, "Christine, don't," but she was far beyond remembering his presence as she fell to her knees beside the dark, huddled figure.

"Erik," she gasped, setting her lantern on the ground so that she could bend over his broken form and gently turn him to her wide eyes. "Oh, my poor angel." Hesitant in her every movement, she brought one trembling hand to his disfigured cheek, brushing across those once-feared scars tenderly. They hadn't touched his face. For all of the injuries he had endured by their whims, they had still possessed enough mercy to leave his disfigurement alone, and yet cruelly, that seemed to be the only place they had avoided. His other cheek was bruised so dark and purple with gashes across his forehead and jaw. Glancing quickly over the rest of him, all that she could see were the random stains of blood covering his clothes and the smears of dirt embedded between…. Had they dragged him from the beach into the house before abandoning his body in his beautiful music room? It frustrated her that she didn't know! That she had no knowledge of her angel's last moments on earth! That for the rest of her life, it would torture her because the answers would never be hers!

"Oh, Erik," she whimpered softly, caressing his dear face again with fingers that could not cease in their quivering. How could she have once so foolishly denounced these very scars? They now seemed to her to be so completely a part of him; that without them, he couldn't be Erik.

"Christine," Raoul called, though he made no move to approach.

"Please, Raoul," she replied, never once taking her eyes from that battered face, "leave me for a few minutes with him…please."

"All right." Though it aggrieved him to concede to her request, he knew just as bitterly that he had no place to be in that room with them, and he softly muttered, "I'll be right outside."

She did not even notice when he left.

With tears that would not cease to pour forth from her weeping soul, she slowly leaned near and pressed her lips in a lingering kiss against his cold, scarred cheek, tasting the salt of her own tears as they intermingled and wet his skin with their descent. As the full extent of a strangled sob escaped from between her lips, she suddenly wrapped her arms around his cold form and clutched herself to him with every ounce of strength that she possessed, and daring to turn her face, she molded her cheek against his, learning the texture of those scars for the first time. If only this wasn't the last time as well!

One of her hands found his and lifted it to her lips so that she could press urgent kisses to his knuckles and his palm. How often had she marveled over these hands? How often had she watched them create the most beautiful music she had ever heard and thought them to be equally as beautiful?

She was about to kiss his fingertips as well when she suddenly halted mid-motion and abruptly sat upright. Dragging his hand closer in the dim candle glow, she inspected it critically. Sand and dirt…marring his usually pristine fingernails. Reaching for his other hand, she surveyed it as well only to find the same thing…. Maybe Erik hadn't been dragged by the mob into his music room…. Maybe he had dragged himself…_after_ the mob had gone and left him for dead…. In her dream, he had been alive even after the attack…; he had been alive….

Hardly able to breathe as if inhaling the world would bring back reality, Christine lowered her head to his chest, pressing her ear against his dirt-stained shirt. _Please, please…. _ His skin was so cold; she could feel it even through the barriers in between. Cold like death…. _Please, …please…._

And then in the sweetest crescendo of sound, she heard a heartbeat, …faint but there. Then another…and another…. And only then did she gasp a deep gulp of air into suffocating lungs as incredulousness filled her wild eyes. She wanted to believe it, but she was terrified to dare. Drawing back, she kept her hopes clenched tightly within her and tentatively brought her hand to the two holes that took the place of a nose. There! The gentlest of breaths struck her palm, and she gasped a laugh amidst her tears.

"Raoul!" she suddenly shrieked as loud as she could, clutching Erik's shoulders with her hands. "Raoul!"

The Vicomte came running as fast as he could to the music room, his heart racing with rising fear and his sword drawn ready for a fight. "Christine! What is it?"

"He's alive!" she was shouting as Raoul rushed to her side. "Alive, Raoul! I knew it! I knew it!"

"What?" the Vicomte stammered, leaping back a step to survey the monster's seemingly dead body.

"He's alive!" Her shaking hand pressed against Erik's chest again and found that sweetest pounding. "His heart is beating, Raoul! Beating!"

Raoul's mind was reeling with a thousand thoughts and murderous urges, but he forced himself to take a deep breath before voicing any of them to the exuberant Christine. The bastard looked dead! The Vicomte would have sworn that he was! How could he have possibly survived the mob?

"Christine," Raoul tried to pose after a moment, his expression grave and unchanged even in the face of her happiness. "He may be still clinging to life, but it is only a matter of time."

"What are you saying?" she snapped even as her arms came around Erik's body protectively in a guarded move that did not go unnoticed by the infuriated Vicomte.

"I just don't want you put all of your faith into this. They left him for dead, and he _is_ at death's doorstep. Perhaps we should just let him go in peace rather than continue to hold on and suffer."

Her eyes flashed fire, and Raoul jerked back a conciliatory step. He had never seen such defiance and aggressive boldness in her; he would have appreciated it if not for its cause. "I won't let him die! And I won't leave him like this! You can either help me, or you can go!"

"Christine-"

"No!" she shouted back. "I don't have time to argue with you! I have to get him to his room and get him warm."

Raoul mumbled a curse beneath his breath before he reluctantly nodded his concession, snapping in reply, "I guess this means I have to help you. I'm not going to leave you here alone with him, so that gives me no other option _but_ to help you."

"Thank you," she retorted, matching his tone and its bite.

With a grimace, the Vicomte crouched down beneath Christine's constant wary stare. "You look at me as though you are waiting for me to suffocate the bastard. Have a little more faith in me than that at least, Christine. I told you that I will help you, and I meant it."

Hesitant yet, she could not stop herself from keeping a very close watch on Raoul as she slowly, almost unwillingly released Erik's unconscious body from her hold.

But Raoul simply went about his task, ignoring her avid mistrust, and awkwardly lifted Erik off of the floor in his arms as Christine scampered to her feet next to him.

"Let me help you," she offered, catching Erik's jacket sleeve in her hand if only to hold onto something.

"You can't carry him; you'd only cause him more damage by trying. Now where is his room?"

Wide-eyed, she gestured for him to follow and led the way back down the long hallway to another shorter corridor almost hidden by the shadows. There was only one doorway, partly concealed from recognition by dimness and design, and it was solely by the glow of Christine's light that its presence was revealed to their intrusion. With hands that trembled incessantly under her hasty actions, she worked the strange lock that easily gave way with her ministrations and opened the door with a resounding creak.

Raoul could not hinder the pang of jealousy that flickered within him. She knew where the monster's bedroom was; she knew the secret of its foreign lock…. And what else had she neglected to tell him? What other secrets were contained by the stone walls of this house on the very doorstep of hell, and what exactly had she shared with the disfigured monster that he himself was aiding to rescue? The Vicomte would not even allow himself to consider an answer to his own justifiable questions; if he did, he might very well go back on his word and finish what the mob should have. Damn their ineptness for leaving the murdering monster with breath left in his body!

Christine shined her light into the room ahead of them and sighed with a rush of relief. It was just as she remembered; the mob had not touched it. With a silent prayer always being chanted by her heart, she ushered Raoul to Erik's bedside where he only too happily relinquished his hold and set Erik's frigid, beaten body atop the mattress.

And then the Vicomte surveyed his surroundings, and a scoff of his distaste escaped his lips. Everything was black, the walls, the wood trim, the hearth, the furniture. Even the bed and its posts and bedding. "This room is like a tomb," Raoul muttered with an overt cringe.

"I suppose," Christine replied, decidedly apathetic toward his opinions. She was too preoccupied with carefully drawing out the blankets of the bed from around Erik's resting form.

As she pried the quilted comforter free beneath him, Raoul's attention was caught by the sheets; black as well. How eerie and tasteless! But the Vicomte kept his thoughts silent this time and instead watched as his fiancée tenderly bundled up the bastard's body with blankets with an unceasing glint that seemed to surpass compassion in her fixed eyes.

Christine was determined and diligent, if for no other reason, then because it kept her from losing hope. She would not even let herself consider that Raoul could be right and that Erik could be far worse off than she would accept. No! No, she would save him; she had to.

Finally turning to Raoul's incessant observation for the first time, she almost winced at the look in his eyes but keenly decided to avoid the brunt of it and asked in a shaky voice, "Will you light a fire? I have to get him warm."

Choosing to elude the argument that would have come with a protest, Raoul dragged his accusations away from her and went to kneel at the hearth. As he worked, he said over his shoulder with forced earnestness, "It's quite fortunate that the mob did not destroy this room. They probably did not even notice it, …or perhaps they could not manage to work the lock."

"Perhaps," she replied without emotion. But then after a moment of consideration, she added with a twinge of enthusiasm, "Then my room is probably intact as well."

"_Your_ room?" The Vicomte quit his task midway to turn and regard Christine, but she never noticed his stare.

"Umhmm," she replied with a nod as if it was the most insignificant of information. "It's across the hall. Erik designed the door so that it appears to be no more than the paneling of the wall. Only he and I know where it is and how to open it."

If his previous jealousy was a pang, now it was a sharp stabbing wound that went right through his heart. A room here? She had a bedroom here with the monster? And how often had she spent the night down in this hell? How many times had she slept so innocently and trustingly across the hall from this madman? A door that only she and Erik knew how to open…, and how often had Erik opened it while she had been inside?… With an irrepressible huff, Raoul turned back to the hearth, forcing his mind away from such disturbing thoughts. They would drive him to insanity!

Christine was leaning over Erik's deceptively peaceful form; all she could think was that she had to get him warm. She would not let this room become the tomb that Raoul had dubbed it, preserving Erik's dead body instead of his living one. The warmth would bring him life.

"Erik, please," she whispered, rubbing at the blankets above his body as if she could somehow coax the heat back into him; it was only her determination that was keeping her tears at bay.

The fire flickered and sparked in the hearth, and satisfied with his work, Raoul rose and turned back to the bed. What he saw broke his heart. Not for the first time, he felt like an outsider who could never belong in this scene, a scene that Christine seemed to fit into so perfectly. It only made him hate that disfigured freak all the more so. It shouldn't be like this! Christine should not be tending to him and crying over him! Why was it that she could so easily see past all of the horrors that he had created and the crimes he had committed? And why was she not shuddering at every image of that twisted, ugly face that Raoul was made ill to behold? It was ridiculous really!

Straightening his shoulders to a regal posture, Raoul walked to her side as she reluctantly lifted her attention to his presence.

"He's not getting any better," she softly revealed, and the Vicomte caught the edge of her tears in her voice. "He was in the cold too long…, and I don't know what to do. …I should have come to him sooner…."

Raoul's jaw tightened with his repressed rage. "This isn't your fault, Christine."

"Yes, it is!" she suddenly exclaimed. "It is! It's _all_ my fault!"

"Christine-"

"A doctor!" she interrupted with the inspiration. "Raoul, we need to get him a doctor. A doctor would know how to save him."

"Have you lost your mind?" Everything that he had been fighting to conceal poured forth in one infuriated shout. "We are _not_ getting him a doctor."

"But why?" she insisted, casting glances over her shoulder at Erik all the while, strangely terrified that if she stopped looking entirely, something, good or bad, would happen.

"You forget that your story is the talk of all of Paris. What doctor would willingly come down here and attend to a vicious murderer?"

"You're the Vicomte de Chagny," she retorted with equaled fervor. "You could find a doctor who would be discreet."

"Maybe I could, but I won't."

"What?" Her brow furrowed with deep lines of her rising hurt.

"Why are you so accepting of all that he has done to you and to us and to too many innocent people? He is a _murderer_, Christine! He has _killed_ people. He almost killed _me_. Forgive me if I can't seem to see past that. It was only last night, after all." The instant the words were said, Raoul almost regretted his biting tone when he saw how coldly Christine was regarding him in return…, almost….

"You don't need to understand this, Raoul," she replied, hushed but bitter. "You never _could_. You don't know Erik as I do…. I won't let him die."

"And _I_ won't do anything more than stay here with you as you play nursemaid to that monster."

"Is it really so simple for you to be this heartless?" she demanded back, suddenly disappointed in the man who had so adamantly claimed to love her.

"It's only fair," the Vicomte replied, not at all swayed. "Was he anymore than heartless when he strangled innocent people with his bare hands? You are only too eager to forget what he's done, and _that_, I grant you, I can never understand."

Christine's blue eyes drifted back to Erik desolately, and her hand delicately rested atop the blankets bundled just over his heart. In a guilt-ridden whisper, she revealed, "He did it for me…. So if he is to blame, then I am as well."

"Oh, I see." Raoul was shaking his head. "He proved his love for you by killing people, kidnapping you, and holding you hostage. I guess that was what it took for you to believe him…, and yet if I did something similar to prove my love, would you be so readily forgiving? Would you look at my immoral actions as endearing as you look at his?"

With a huff of annoyance and disbelief, Christine snapped back at him, "Endearing? I am not naïve, Raoul; I know what he did was wrong, but as I said, you don't know Erik and you have no right to judge him. He has endured a life that you could never even fathom-"

"And that makes murder acceptable," Raoul stated flatly. "I hadn't realized that."

"Stop," she warned sharply. "If you are going to be so patronizing, then you can just leave."

"No, not while you are so determined to stay, but as I said, I am not lifting a hand to help this ridiculous charade. I'm actually hoping the bastard dies, but don't worry your pretty head, I won't usher it along."

Narrowing her eyes with spite, Christine stared at him as if she had never seen him before. It astounded her, but it was as if he was suddenly showing his true self, a self that had always been there beneath the shining package, but she had been too blinded to ever look close enough and see it.

Without a word in his direction, she focused her attention back on her unconscious patient, sitting on the edge of his bed beside him. No matter how enraged she was with Raoul, she found that the instant she looked at Erik, all of that faded away until only compassion and tenderness remained in eyes that had regained the glow they had been missing simply to have him so close. Alive, her heart assured; he was alive.

Raoul pretended that he did not see it, that the only emotions that could possibly be on her face were guilt and perhaps sympathy, nothing more…, nothing more. But the longer he lingered, the more he became sure that he couldn't stay in this room and continue to witness this scene as some sort of intruder. No, if he was away from such intimate images, then he could remember that Christine loved him and only him. After all he had done for her, of course he was the only man she loved, and doubting it would only rip them apart.

Even as she heard him leave the room, she gave it no acknowledgement, knowing that he wouldn't go far. She wasn't fortunate enough that he would simply leave her alone with Erik; he was still far too threatened to even consider it.

Taking off her thick, woolen cloak, Christine added it to the top of the pile of blankets over Erik. The room was still quite frigid, no matter what she seemed to do. Usually, despite the chill of the catacombs, Erik's home remained quite warm and almost cozy with the fires in the hearths always bright and burning to chase away even faint wisps of cold, but now being dim for long hours, it would be awhile before heat could fully return to overwhelm cold's spell.

Dear God, she felt utterly useless! The only skills she possessed in dealing with ailing people were from her father's illness, and then there had always been doctors and nursemaids present to tend to him when sitting lovingly at his bedside had not been enough. Now she had no one….

And Erik was so pale beneath his purple bruises, so deathly still…. No, she wouldn't allow herself to dwell on such disconcerting thoughts now. She had to do something to keep her mind busy.

Rising abruptly, she hurried to Erik's adjoining bathroom, returning with a shallow basin filled with water and a soft sponge. Setting the objects on the bedside table, she carefully pushed the blankets back enough to expose every feature of her angel's tattered face. A hint of a smile tinged her lips as she paused to gaze upon him.

"My Erik," she whispered tenderly before she could stop herself. Then with a flutter of a tear choking real sound, she added a soft plea, "Come back to me."

Forcing such emotions away beneath purpose's necessity, she reached for the wet sponge and delicately began to wash away the dirt and dried blood from his face as if by doing so, she could wipe away the trauma and cruelty of what he had endured as well.

Over and over again, she trailed the sponge across his features. With a gentle touch, she cleansed the gashes across his forehead and jawline, wiping away smudges of dirt and realizing that the injuries were not as deep as she had first thought.

It was bitterly ironic to her that this was the most she had ever touched him, that it had taken such a horrific situation for her to finally let go of her stupid vanity and a foolishly childish sense of disgust that had always lingered unjustifiably in the background. This was just another face; in a sea of variations, this one bore scars. They were hardly anything to denounce him for.

Minutes ticked by. A quarter of an hour. A half of an hour. An hour. Each passing second was grueling for her to endure with no other task to busy herself and grated on any inkling of patience that she still bore. To reassure her reeling mind, she continuously lifted her hand to feel the breaths Erik was exhaling. Their presence gave her a modicum of peace, but after awhile, they weren't enough as she began to doubt herself. He was so deathlike; perhaps she was only holding to an impossible hope. Alive, alive, he had to be alive; he had to be alive, her mind kept repeating.

Scooting closer to his still form, she slowly lowered her head until she could press her cheek to the pile of blankets over his chest. Thump, thump. There it was. His heartbeat, soothing her, hypnotizing like some sort of constant metronome. She closed her eyes, savouring that sound, that feeling of life coursing yet through his unconscious body.

_"A heartbeat was the first music,"_ Erik had told her once. He had been trying to teach her that music went far beyond notes and melody. At the time, it had seemed strange to her, an idea beyond her comprehension, but now with Erik's heartbeat sounding in her ears, she understood his lesson. She could hear far more than a steady pulse; it was as beautiful as a symphony played by a full orchestra.

Somewhere along the way, she felt her own heartbeat change its pattern until it matched his as if she had joined him in some duet more significant than any ever written or sung. From where she lay, she could feel his every breath as each one lifted his chest beneath her cheek and then skittered across her brow with its exhalation, ruffling her hair and giving her goosebumps over every inch of her skin. Was it only last night that she had held him for the first time, …that she had kissed him…?

That kiss…. She had not had the chance to truly roll it over in her mind and study its every nuance. It had been something that in retrospect, felt like some kind of dream. The memory was hazy at the edges, indefinable, a constant question unto itself; it had happened so quickly that she could not even recall the actual sensation of his lips against hers. But the emotions and the intensity with which they had assaulted her then and still did with the recollection of the event alone, were vividly real, and their genuineness was undeniable.

Why had she done it? Her word alone would have been enough to save Raoul's life. Why indeed…. Maybe because she didn't want Erik to think that she was agreeing to his proposal only for the Vicomte. Maybe because there was more to her choice than that, much more, far more than she had ever been willing to acknowledge. Too many realizations, too many truths buried away, too many untaken opportunities. And if Erik died now, would she ever forgive herself? How could she possibly? …After what she'd put him through, forgiveness was an impossibility.

Time was passing by, but she no longer noticed, held in space by the rhythmic beat of his heart. She was so tired, exhausted, and she could feel consciousness drifting away from her grasp. Her body was relaxing, sinking against his, molding to his…, and then suddenly, seemingly without impetus, her eyes shot open.

She had felt it, a shift in his steady heartbeat, a digression from the constant pattern of his every breath. _Oh God, don't take him yet!_

Christine lifted her head from his chest as panic overwhelmed her. She was regarding him intensely with wide eyes, but his face was still unchanged. Would she see it? Would she see Death take him from her? Or would it happen right in front of her yet invisible to her eye?

Her palm pressed flat to his chest again, needing to feel that still-present beating. It was quicker now, a bit erratic even.

"Erik, please," she whispered with rising tears. She couldn't lose him, …not yet.

And then so subtle that had she not been staring, she would have missed it, she saw a slight cringing of his brow. She was almost too afraid to believe it, afraid that her desperate mind had created a nonexistent movement to torture her by spurring more hope.

But then it happened again, a deeper crease from a greater cringe, followed by a soft whimper.

"Erik," she breathed desperately, hovering over him. "Yes, that's it, _mon ange_. Open your eyes; _please_ open your eyes."

Another sound, this one more decisively a moan, came from his parted lips as he seemed to be trying so hard to obey her command.

"Erik," she called again, tears spilling down her cheeks. "_Mon ange_, please."

His eyelids fluttered once, twice, and then those mismatched orbs, one blue and one green, peered out at her, lackluster in their usual brilliance but still glinting with life in their depths. A breath escaped him like an inaudible sigh as he took in the sight of her face above him, her incredulous grin, her gleaming tears. Amidst the pains and dull aches of his body, he knew a fleeting sense of bliss. Then just as suddenly, it was gone.

"No," he rasped out weakly. "No, …I don't belong here."

Christine's brow furrowed with deep, worried lines as she stammered, "But, Erik, you're home."

He tried unsuccessfully to shake his head, overwhelmed by the sharp throbbing that meager movement alone caused, and insisted, "No, …I don't belong in the presence of angels."

"Angels? …Oh no, Erik, I am not an angel," she replied with a rush of relief. "It's just me. It's Christine. You're not dead, my Erik. You've come back to me."

"But you…you were gone," he protested in a whisper, his usually golden voice hoarse and grated on its edges. "And the mob…they were…merciless, and…it…it was too much, the pain…. And I let go…. I gave up…. I wanted to hold on for her, …for _you_, but I couldn't…. I am to be damned for all eternity…. And is this my eternal punishment then? To look upon you and watch you leave me with him again and again…. I can think of no pain and no torture greater than that."

"Sshh, no, Erik, no," she bid, her tears tumbling down her face. "You are alive, and I am here with you…. I won't leave you again." Perhaps she should not have made futile promises when she could not say for certain whether or not they would prove to be lies in the end, but seeing the depth of the hurt in his eyes made her heart ache in a necessary reply. In her mind, she was recalling his expression that night as the boat had pulled away with her and Raoul in it, the way that he had simply stood there frozen in place watching her go even as the mob had arrived. They had nearly beaten the life out of him and yet his only concern had been holding on for her.

Her words seemed to calm him and ignite a flicker of hope in eyes that were regaining their internal glow more and more with each passing moment. "I knew you'd come back," he whispered passionately.

"I knew you needed me," she replied with equaled fervency.

A dark shadow dimmed his expression. "And what of the Vicomte?"

She wouldn't lie to him; she knew that he would know instantly if she did with the creeping darkness in her own gaze. As if it could only be considered a deception to him, she replied, "He's here with me."

"Oh."

"It was the only way he'd let me come to you," she hastily explained, desperate to take the hurt away from him again. Leaning close without hesitation, she slowly reached out a trembling hand to gently caress his disfigured cheek, idly stroking the unnatural contours of the flesh.

"Christine," he breathed, his eyes filling with tears as he arched up to her touch, starving for it. Dear God, if this was a delusion brought about by the nearing hand of Death, let him linger here as long as he could; let him have this one fantasy, even if it wasn't real, to stave him through an eternity of hellfire…. But no, …if this were only a fantasy, then she wouldn't be crying.

"You almost died…," she whispered desperately as the true extent of the past hours began to settle into their rightful place in reality. "I almost lost you forever…. Oh, Erik, I-"

Her words were cut off as the door to the room opened with a loud creak, and yanking her hand away from Erik's face as if she had been burned, she spun about to face the Vicomte as he entered with an uncontrollable flicker of guilt in her eyes.

"Raoul." She prayed that he would not read the unmistakable flutter in her voice. "Erik's awake," she stated matter of factly.

Raoul had hesitated just within the threshold of the doorway, surveying the scene and noting most especially the particular vision of his fiancée lingering with such an intimate closeness to the disfigured monster, very practically lying in his bed with him. Impulse begged the Vicomte to drag Christine out of the room and out of the house entirely, to take her as far away from this place as he could and lock her in a room if only to keep her beyond the grasp of his rival. Strangely enough, he felt that if he did not have her under locked guard, no matter where he took her, she would always end up right here, so tenderly caressing the monster that had nearly killed him and had tried to force her into a marriage with him…. Raoul suddenly wondered to himself just how forced it actually would have been….

Staring coldly at the Vicomte, Erik wished that he wasn't so weak and at the mercy of their care. If he had had his full strength about him, he was tempted to finish what he had started the previous night and end the boy's pitiful existence. He sufficed himself with the reality that Christine had returned to him, and that alone must have stung the Vicomte's swelled ego. But how Erik hated the boy nonetheless! He had _never_ hated anyone as much, and for no other reason save that Christine cared about him…. And yet who was she so tenderly nursing to now? Who had she just vowed not to leave again? Who indeed….

"Well," Raoul began with feigned sincerity. "That's wonderful news, isn't it?"

"I guess that I owe you a modicum of gratitude, de Chagny," Erik called. He wanted to sound strong, even a bit threatening if possible, but to his annoyance, even as he tried to make his voice obey, it was feeble and sickly. And he was sure that his appearance conveyed the same thing: a defeated man.

"Gratitude is unnecessary," Raoul replied stiffly. "This was Christine's endeavor; I am only accompanying her as any _fiancé_ would."

Erik tried not to give away how severe he had been stung. Words could hurt much worse than fists, and Raoul seemed to know just how to manipulate their power.

Lifting her gaze to meet Erik's, Christine conveyed an unspoken utterance akin to an apology in a silent look alone, and Erik very nearly smiled his miniscule victory, despite the decisive ache to every muscle of his face. Unspoken and secret. Let the arrogant Vicomte say what he would. If Christine did not mirror the sentiment, then the words became nothing more than the defense of a spoiled boy against an injured man. They mattered little when she was still sitting close enough to him that he could feel the warmth of her body searing him even with layers of blankets between them. He couldn't remember a time that she had ever remained so near to his presence for so long, usually scampering away every time he had dared approach until he had learned to keep his distance. It had become second nature to stay beyond a modest gap away from her, waiting and praying for her to gradually accept his existence and eventually make her own move toward him instead. She never had…until now.

Erik tried once again to create a smile for her, but his sore muscles would barely obey beyond a slight upturn of the corners of his misshapen mouth. No matter. He knew that the adoration he felt for her was beaming in his eyes; it was what had brought the life back into him. And he knew with pleasure that the Vicomte could see it equally as well.

"Christine," Raoul called, trying to keep the rising rage from his voice. "Perhaps you should let him rest. It will help him heal."

She didn't want to agree with Raoul's suggestion, but despite the ulterior motives she could sense existed beneath a semblance of concern, she knew that his reasoning was right. Turning her eager gaze back to Erik with a hesitant smile, she said, "Yes, you should get some rest, _ange_."

Erik wanted to pose some sort of argument, but sleep was far too tempting to him. Just this small exchange had exhausted him far more than he wanted to admit. With a flash of a lingering doubt, he replied, "You aren't going to simply disappear again, are you? You will be here when I awake."

It was half a question and half a command, but the light immediately danced in her eyes and beamed in her smile, giving him hope and taking away any consideration to pain. "Of course." Christine tentatively placed her palm atop his chest a moment more, feeling the strong, steady beat as it leapt up to meet her. Softly, she told him, "I can feel the music."

Erik was nearly brought to tears by her words, catching his breath in a gasp as he recalled the lesson he had taught her so long ago. It was as if they were speaking a secret language because he knew that the Vicomte did not understand what she meant, that even if she explained it to him, the boy would never be able to fathom such artistic concepts. They went too far beyond his world of money and artificial beauty.

She hesitated a moment more with a long look that was torture to sever before slowly rising from his bed and following Raoul from the room, her eyes casting glances over her shoulder at every chance until the Vicomte closed the door and ended her attempts for her.

"He's doing well, isn't he?" Raoul asked to capture her attention and attempted to sound genuine.

Christine was still staring at the closed door as if she might be able to see through the wood if she looked hard enough. She couldn't help but want another look to reassure her incessant doubts. After being so close to losing him, she was inclined to insist that she never wanted to be out of his presence again; it was ridiculous but to her apprehensive mind, it seemed that if she was always with him, she could prevent any danger from ever touching him again.

Finally facing the Vicomte a long minute later, she suddenly asked, "Where were you? You were gone quite awhile."

"Actually, I was straightening up in the other rooms."

Christine stared at him entirely aghast, certain he had lost his mind; she doubted that the Vicomte had ever done anything even somewhat like that in his life. "Oh? You…cleaned?"

Raoul grinned at her shocked expression. He did not dare add that he had had to do something to keep himself busy if only to prevent agonizing thoughts of her tending to his rival in his absence; no, she did not need to know that. "Don't be too surprised, or you might start to expect too much from me. I did not say that I _cleaned_; I don't think that I know how to _clean_, per se, but I did pick up what I could and see what could be salvaged from the mess…. I was anticipating that you were going to want to stay the night."

Such a point had felt an unnecessary consideration; she had simply assumed that she would stay as long as she must, night or day. "Yes, of course."

The Vicomte was trying to keep up a light front and make such information seem inconsequential. As he had been working earlier, he had realized that he had little choice but to happily go along with whatever she wanted, even if his pleasantness was all a lie; if he continued to be sullen and rude, he could very well lose her and her affections to that monster in the other room, who would likely fill her head with his nonsense that the Vicomte did not respect her and her wishes and therefore could not love her. Damn him! …He was supposed to be dead!

"Well," Raoul went on, "the couch is in good condition."

"The couch?"

He smiled broadly and insisted without waver in his façade, "Since you have your own bedroom to sleep in, I thought that I would sleep on the couch."

"You…want to stay, too?" Part of her had concluded as much already, but still she had been hoping otherwise.

"Of course. What kind of a gentleman would I be if I left you in this cave and went back to my own warm house? Besides, I don't want you staying down here alone. What if someone comes to make sure the opera ghost is really dead? You'd have no one to protect you."

Christine noted how Raoul still avoided saying Erik's name, as if he couldn't even acknowledge that Erik was a human being. She didn't anticipate that ever changing no matter how supportive he pretended to be. "I truly doubt that anyone will come down here. You yourself called it a tomb; that is how the rest of the world sees it as well. They won't venture here again."

"There's no way to say for certain. And besides, what if your friend takes a turn for the worse? You might need help."

She had not considered that. Perhaps it was foolishly naïve of her, but she assumed that Erik waking meant that he would be fine. Her eyes wandered once again to his closed door with nervous apprehension. "I…I was going to make him some soup, but…maybe it would be better if I stayed with him."

"And do what?" the Vicomte demanded as if the very idea was absurd. "Sit at his bedside while he sleeps? There isn't anything you can do but let him rest right now."

"But…but what if he wakes up? What if he needs…me?" She was almost loath to ask such a question to the man she supposedly loved and was betrothed to marry.

And Raoul could not suppress a huff of annoyance before he reluctantly replied with an imperceptible cringe, "I could sit with him." Suspicion immediately flared in her blue eyes, even though she did not speak a word of it aloud. "Come on, Christine, do you truly believe that I would attack a sick man in his bed? I wish you would believe in my intentions even just a little bit; I am only offering to help."

"But you hate Erik," she stated plainly, her expression remaining wary. "You wish him dead."

"Yes, I _do_ hate him, but I love you. And if I must sit at a murderer's bedside to make you happy, then I will. I would do anything for you." When the doubt still did not leave her features and erase their telltale lines, he added in hopes of appeasing their presence, "You can make me responsible for anything that happens to him. If something were to occur while I am on watch of him, you can call off our engagement and refuse to marry me. That must mean something to you, that I would put the only thing in the world that I want in jeopardy for this."

It did mean something; it meant enough for her to lose a fraction of her doubt, but only enough for her to tentatively concede, and under an expression that remained skeptically set, she gave a single nod. "All right, Raoul. Stay with him, and if he wakes, …or if something happens, …if-"

"I'll come and get you," he finished for her, and smiling with assurance, he closed the gap between them to press a kiss to her forehead. "Don't worry, darling. I gave you my word."

Edging back to put a comfortable distance between them again, she softly said, "Thank you," and with a final hesitation weighing her steps, she turned and walked down the hall, wondering to herself if she was making a grave mistake.

Raoul watched her go. He really couldn't blame her mistrust, but ironically enough, he had meant every word he had said. And even though he wished for nothing more than the bastard's death, the inevitable consequence of losing Christine kept it from being an option.

With a final look in the direction she had gone, the Vicomte de Chagny reluctantly went to sit at the bedside of his most hated enemy, knowing that his future depended on the man's recovery. A cruel twist of fate, wasn't it?


	3. Chapter 3

Nearly an hour had gone by, every second dragging itself as if it enjoyed torturing the impatient Vicomte. He had searched Erik's room for something to read to help pass the time, but all he had found were books on the mechanics of music, on its history and practice, treatises on music theory. He might as well have been reading a book in a foreign language altogether. Finally, he gave up and simply resigned himself to a chair beside where the disfigured man slept with fleeting inklings of peace. Raoul was actually pleased that the monster would shift about in his sleep every few minutes or so, moaning even in unconsciousness at the pain any motion brought to his battered body. It was a shred of justice, and at least such signs of life meant that the Vicomte did not have to approach him and continuously check for a pulse.

Sighing to himself, Raoul was tapping his fingers incessantly on the arm of his chair when he noticed a frantic stirring from the bed.

Erik was in the midst of a horrifying nightmare. He was back to that fateful night with the mob closing in, only he wasn't alone. Christine was there; he hadn't let her leave with the Vicomte, forcing her to honor her choice. They had nowhere to go, nowhere to run as torches could be seen in the caves on every side of them. And as the attack came with blunt blows that struck him from every angle, he could hear Christine's terrified cries as they called her the phantom's whore and hung his sins upon her head as well. He was trying to get to her, to make them stop their assault, but there were too many, …too many hands and fists, and Christine was suffering his fate with him.

He awoke in a sweat, gasping out desperately, "Christine."

"Not at the moment, but I would hope that I am suitable company in her stead."

Erik fought to lift himself to a seated position, but he was too weak and every miniscule movement made his body throb and reminded him of the limits to exertion. Damn his invalid state!

"De Chagny," he greeted his companion, once again trying a strong, snide tone. Unlike the last time, he was able to sound a bit more menacing, certainly more so than he actually felt. Shifting a bit uncomfortably at the odd and disconcerting reality of finding the Vicomte sitting at his bedside, he demanded, "Where is Christine?"

Simply hearing her name spoken by that disfigured monster made Raoul's blood boil, but he forced himself to hold his temper within his control and replied, "She's playing the dutiful little nursemaid and making you something to eat."

"She is too gentle-hearted for her own good," Erik insisted with a modicum of sadness. He wasn't sure how to take any of this. She had returned, yes, but with a fiancé in tow. Perhaps it was only guilt and compassion then that were compelling her, loyalty maybe, a sense of obligation to an unconventional friendship. Once he was healed, would she then leave again and this time without a second thought?…

"Since she isn't here," the Vicomte was continuing on, "there are a few things that you and I need to set straight and a few…provisos, if you will, with this current situation that we find ourselves bound to endure together."

Erik huffed a perturbed breath. If he had had any strength and the means to use it, he would not be lingering to listen to this ridiculousness; it was the nearest to torture that he could imagine, but under the circumstances, all he could do was snap, "Well, go on then."

Raoul abruptly rose to his feet. Towering over the incapacitated man made him feel intimidating and not at all the victim that he had been at their last meeting; victim, no, he'd never be a victim again. In as stern a voice as he could muster, he insisted, "Christine was the one to instigate this quest to save your pathetic life; I don't know why, nor do I agree with it, but for her, I permit it. Do not take my participation in the wrong vein. I myself would just as soon see you dead and buried away."

"That feeling is shared between us."

Granting him only a fleeting sneer as a retort, he went on, "She and I _both_ will be remaining here until her conscience is clear of you. Then we will be off to be married and start our life together. If you dare to try anything to alter our plans, then I will not be as withstanding in the power of my hatred for you. I _will_ kill you, and Christine won't protest because I will make sure that she sees the monster you truly are. Are we understood, my _friend_? She is _not_ yours anymore."

Erik's eyes slanted a bit with thought. The Vicomte was feeling threatened; that much was obvious. But what had incited it? Did he perhaps see something worthy of such consideration? …Interesting, indeed….

"We are understood, de Chagny," Erik replied flatly. "Quite clearly, in fact."

"Good then…." He trailed off before he could utter another warning as the door creaked and opened.

"Erik, you're awake," Christine called as she entered the doorway, a tray balanced in her hands. There was no denying to either man in the room that the smile lighting her lips and blazing in her eyes was entirely genuine and a step away from brilliant.

"Yes," Erik replied, smiling back as much as he could manage. "I see you've been busy."

He still looked weak to her, as if he was feigning far more strength than he actually had, but just seeing those mismatched eyes on her and that scarred face full of life delighted her to the deepest depths of her being.

"I made some soup for you. I apologize for taking so long, but the kitchen was a mess."

At the mention of the mob's destruction, Erik grew quiet and somber. A memory flashed in his mind. He had been laying in the same place where they had beaten him barely clinging to consciousness, listening to the heartbreaking sounds of them ransacking his home. He had heard them laughing amidst the sounds of wood breaking and glass shattering. Most people would say that they were only objects and that objects could be replaced, but for Erik, they were his life, all he had had to sustain his existence for so many lonely years. His glorious pipe organ that he had built himself…. It had been a pain worse than any beating that he had endured when dragging himself into his home, he had seen haphazard pipes and piano keys scattered about here and there.

"Erik." Christine's concerned voice burst into his reverie. "Are you all right?"

"Yes…. I'm fine…." For her sake, he pushed the memories away and sought to concentrate on something more mundane. "I didn't know that you cooked."

"Neither did I," Raoul echoed with some bit of amusement.

"Well, neither of you ever asked," she replied plainly, carrying the tray to Erik's bedside table. "I took care of my papa for years. We had no servants or maids, so I had to run the household."

"But who taught you to cook?" Raoul posed back.

"I taught myself." A little giggle fluttered in her throat with merely the consideration of something so long forgotten. "There was quite a bit of trial and error involved, and my father was very much the gentleman to endure some of the worst of my kitchen mishaps and act as if I had prepared him a great feast." Just as quickly as it appeared, her laughter faded away into a hollow echo as she quickly buried away memories that were still too raw. Perhaps someday she'd be able to look back upon her childhood without a mere mention of it returning the deep void of loss in her heart.

Erik instantly understood what she would rather not say and gently bid, "Christine."

She tentatively lifted her blue eyes to him, and in that very moment, she was overwhelmed with a rush of happiness, filling the void and suffocating the pain. He could always seem to do that, ever since the first days when he had come to her as an angel.

Watching them intently, Raoul found himself utterly enraged by the way she seemed to be sharing a gaze, an emotion, an entire wordless conversation even with his disfigured rival, and clearing his throat loudly enough to interject upon the scene, he insisted, "Christine, the soup is going to get cold."

Shaken back to her unsolicited reality, she lifted her wide eyes to the Vicomte's observance and halfheartedly nodded. Though it seemed ridiculous, she could feel her heart being overwhelmed by guilt as if her thoughts alone were a betrayal of their relationship…. Maybe they were.

As she hastily returned to her task, reaching for the steaming bowl, Erik once again tried to sit upright in the bed, but with his first attempt to lift himself, his weak, sore arms gave out in their endeavor and dropped his frail frame back onto the pillows. He was left able to do little more than mutter a soft curse of annoyance beneath his breath. How he hated showing any glimpse of weakness! And to know that the Vicomte was in observance was an absolute abomination!

"Oh, Erik." Christine immediately abandoned the bowl and rushed to his side, determined to help him.

"No, don't!" he commanded sharply, shrinking away from her seeking hands. She couldn't understand; how could she? The formerly omnipotent phantom reduced to this pathetic excuse of a man, fallible and mortal when he should have been invincible.

Raoul had come alongside her and caught her hands still hovering in suspension where they had been en route to Erik's cringing body. Gently drawing them back and away within his, he insisted, "Let me, Christine."

Even as she met his eye with a twinge of suspicion, she nodded. There was something in Raoul's gaze that was strangely real and oddly compassionate; and even if it was only incited in hopes of his own gain, it staggered her enough to permit him.

Erik gritted his teeth with an anger that he knew was pointless. It was awful enough having Christine tend to him like he was a child, but having the Vicomte at his side as a seeming noble comrade was unbearable. "I'm fine," he tried to insist in what was as near to a growl as he could manage. "I don't need the both of you fussing over me."

"I do not 'fuss' over anyone, _especially_ not you," Raoul insisted as he carefully lifted a very reluctant Erik into a seated position with little visible effort. "Now don't be a stubborn jackass and offend Christine; she's the one of us who gives a damn, if you'll recall."

"What genteel language, de Chagny," Erik muttered between clenched teeth to distract himself. He hadn't realized that sitting would be such a painful position to contort his battered body into. But he'd be damned if he'd let Raoul see him suffering!

"I realize this is a difficult situation for you," Raoul went on. "And may I selfishly argue that it's probably even more difficult for me. Do you think I want to be helping _you_? The man who tried to murder me? No, I don't-"

"Raoul," Christine chided sharply.

"Let me finish," Raoul insisted. "I was going to say, Monsieur, that I know that you wouldn't want to help me either, but in a similar situation, one where murder was no longer an option to choose, I would hope that you would be willing to put differences aside just for the moment."

"Highly unlikely," Erik replied, his jaw tight with forced suppression.

"Well, then I guess between the two of us, I'm the better person. That isn't a far stretch to conclude seeing as how I've never murdered anyone, but…." Raoul was about to push further, but he suddenly noticed Erik's expression and his intentions were forgotten. "You're in pain," he declared matter of factly as if tattling a secret.

Erik shot him a deadly glare as Christine immediately leaned over him with urgent eyes. "Erik, what is it?"

Forcing some semblance of a calm expression, even if it was constricted and appeared more like a grimace, he insisted abruptly, "Nothing, _petite_. I'm just…getting settled into this position." It wasn't entirely a lie; the longer he sat upright, the more the pain was fading away into the background as his bruised body adapted to the pose, but it still hurt enough to cause every limb to unconsciously shake ever so slightly as proof.

Without hesitation, Christine gently touched his one unmarked cheek with her fingertips. "Are you certain that you are all right?"

It was so easy to ignore the brunt of the pain with her warm skin against his. His mind could focus instead on the feel of her small fingers, her scent, her nearness; she was a miracle unto herself. "Yes, Christine…. Now what about your soup?"

It was awkward; the entire situation was like some farce of a comedy meant solely to humiliate him. With Raoul looking on like a protecting hawk ready to swoop in and play the hero should the need arise, Christine sat perched on the side of the bed with the soup in hand, very carefully feeding Erik spoonful after spoonful. It was only for her sake that he let go of his pride and permitted her care without argument, seeing how it delighted her to play at her role and know she was helping. And truly, once he had finished, he did feel stronger; even though he knew it was due to a decent meal for a broken body, his heart argued that it was actually and only the result of her nearness.

"Thank you," he told her quietly as she placed the empty bowl back on the tray. "The soup was wonderful."

She smiled tenderly, and to Erik's immediate rush of disappointment, rose from the bed. "And now, Monsieur Fantôme, you should rest."

"If that is what my nurse instructs, then I will offer no protest." Erik caught sight of Raoul getting to his feet on the verge of approaching to help him lay back again, and before he could dare try, despite every penetrating ache it caused him, Erik hastily managed to lower himself down on his own, sneering indignantly with his achievement. The pain was far more tolerable than the embarrassment of having the Vicomte act for him again.

Raoul just shook his head at the man's stubbornness and instead went to take the tray from Christine; there was more than one way to play the gentleman! "Come on, darling," the Vicomte bid gently. "Let's let him sleep in peace."

Oblivious to the games of jealousy and territoriality going on right in front of her, Christine lingered a moment more, standing so near to Erik's bedside that her skirt brushed the blankets. Reaching toward him, she idly stroked his brow with quivering fingers and gently crooned, "Sleep well, _ange_."

Erik could only nod in reply. His throat was choked with a swelling of emotion so powerful that he feared one word would reveal its presence. One word, and he would lose his control and a never-ending stream of tears would betray his longing heart. No, not with the Vicomte so near…. He had too much dignity for that.

With one more necessary caress, Christine reluctantly turned and followed the eager Vicomte out of the room, softly closing the door behind herself and shutting away the only image she truly wanted to see.

"Your soup smelled delicious," the Vicomte was saying as he carried the tray toward the kitchen. "I hope you made enough for us as well."

She nodded, but in truth, she was only half-listening. Her mind was distracted and drifting elsewhere, or rather to someone else….

Dinner between them was far too silent to be comfortable. They were seated at opposite ends of the damaged dining room table, its surface dented and sliced beyond repair, and every time Christine's eyes strayed to the vibrant mutilation of the wood between their bowls, she couldn't keep from pondering how fortunate she was that Erik had survived amidst such brutality.

"Christine," Raoul called, breaking the suffocating quiet and disturbing her reverie, "you've barely eaten a bite."

Glancing down at her nearly full bowl and then the spoon she unwittingly was holding between loose fingers, she idly shrugged against his concern. "Oh, …I'm not really hungry. …Do you think I should go and check on him?"

"Don't be ridiculous! He's fine. The best thing for him to do is to sleep." Setting his spoon down with a soft huff, he continued solemnly, "You've done too much for him already, much more than he could ever deserve."

Her eyes darted up from the bloodless gash inflicted upon unassuming wood to meet his stare defiantly. "Oh yes, that's right; you think that he deserved to be beaten to unconsciousness and then to freeze to death in these catacombs. At some point when you were helping, I forgot the true nature of things."

"I won't lie. I do feel some sort of sympathy for him; it is only natural when you see someone suffering. Any decent human being would care. But then I remind myself who he is and what he's done, and the sympathy is quickly lost. You should truly take a moment to recall the horror he put you through as well. Perhaps it would give you some perspective."

Without saying a word, despite the heavy lines wrinkling her brow with a hundred thoughts, Christine rose and went to take Raoul's empty bowl. As she lifted it, he caught her wrist and held her captive, forcing her to regard him again.

"I don't wish to be at odds with you, darling," he told her with a modicum of gentility. When she did not reply, he concluded for both of them, "We are just exhausted; it has been an unbearable few weeks. Once you're done here, I want you to go to your room and get some sleep."

"But Erik-"

"Will sleep through the night just fine," Raoul interrupted sternly. "He's a grown man, Christine, and I'm sure that he doesn't want you making yourself ill tending for him."

"And what will you do?" she asked after a long moment.

"As I told you earlier, I intend to sleep on the couch so that I am within earshot if the bastard tries anything."

"Raoul, he can barely move," she argued with rising annoyance at the very idea.

"Forgive me if I have little trust in a man who tried to strangle me." Releasing her wrist with a flicker of reluctance, he urged, "Go on. A good night's rest will do us all much good."

She didn't protest. She only wanted to be out of the Vicomte's presence. Protesting would have pressed forward more words than she was inclined to find.

A few minutes later with the kitchen as close to tidy as she could manage, she bid a halfhearted goodnight to Raoul, ducking when he sought a kiss, and retired to the small, concealed corridor. Her eyes lingered for a long, held breath on Erik's closed door, her mind spinning with considerations if he could possibly still be awake before with a reluctant sigh, she entered her room just across the hall, opening its oddly constructed entrance effortlessly.

A hot bath sounded delicious and relaxing to her chilled body. …And a bath would give Raoul enough time to fall asleep….

Acquiescing to an impulse, she locked her bedroom door before stepping to her awaiting wardrobe. It was ridiculous to worry about Raoul coming into her room uninvited; it would be nearly impossible for him even to locate the door, and yet she felt disinclined to take any chances. This was her room, after all, her own private haven, hidden away where no one could find her, …no one but Erik.

When she had first begun to come to his home for her lessons, staying the night often enough for it to hold no awkward facets to its suggestion, she had often wondered over his intentions in such an unconventional and almost frightening design. Part of her had concluded that he was going to lock her away in the room for all eternity where anyone who ever tried to search for her would never find her. That had been when she had still been apprehensive and even a bit afraid of him. But as time had gone by and they had grown closer, she had asked him her questions about the room's conception, and he had patiently explained that he had once used the room to hold his most precious possession, his pipe organ, certain that no one but he would ever be able to touch it and therefore keeping it safely secure. But, as he had said, when he had considered making a room for her in his home, there had only ever been one option, for she was far more precious than any of his possessions…. That memory only made the pipe organ's destruction weigh all the more so on her shoulders…. If she had never come into his life, then none of this would have ever happened and his life wouldn't have been ripped to shreds right in front of him….

With a frustrated sigh, she forced the torturous thoughts away and the impending guilt that went with them, and opening her wardrobe door to her inspection, she found her nightgown hanging exactly as she had last left it. And yet as she pulled it out, she noticed the fresh scent of soap and smiled to herself as she hugged the soft material to her chest. Erik had had it cleaned for her…. He often indulged in such seemingly trivial gestures to display his unchanging affection for her, always more than willing to attempt to charm her even as her heart had seemed so far beyond his grasp.

As she entered her adjoining, bath chamber, she saw another of his indulgences. On the ledge surrounding the tub, he had left her a bottle of bath salts, and new lilac-colored towels were laid out ready for her use.

Her mind began to reel with her thoughts. It had been months since she had last stayed with him, and yet it seemed that he had been intending for her to be doing so again…, to choose him…. Last night…he had obviously been planning to hold her to her word, assuming that she would follow the predetermined course of his plans and choose to save Raoul…. Then why had he let her go instead? To have gone to such great detail and then to refuse her…, it didn't make sense. Even the kitchen, as she had noticed when she had been preparing supper, had been uncharacteristically stocked with an abundance of food, far more than Erik usually had stored when he was alone…. And yet in the end, he hadn't gone through with his plan at all….

Christine went back to her task, but the subject was far from resolved in her mind. Even as she bathed, using the vanilla-scented bath salts and the plush towels as if fulfilling a destiny that had already been shattered, she imagined what would have happened if Erik had indeed accepted her vow to stay. Such fantasies were surprisingly not unpleasant to her; if anything, they only left her with an irrepressible longing for what wasn't to be.


	4. Chapter 4

A little while later, clothed in her nightdress with her damp curls loose and drying down her back, Christine crept on bare feet out of her room and across the carpeted hallway. Glancing toward the living room, she noted that the fire had been put out, but it wasn't until the low rumble of gentle snoring met her ear that she relaxed and let her hand turn the doorknob.

The dim glow of the hearth's dying embers lit the room to her eager eyes, casting shadows to welcome her as she quickly closed herself inside as if she was an integral component of these surroundings. He wasn't asleep, but instead was moving about restlessly beneath the blankets as if he couldn't possibly find comfort. It broke her heart to consider the pain he was truly suffering, pain that he bore too much pride to share with her.

"Erik," she called softly, moving toward the bed with hesitant footsteps.

"Christine?" His entire body abruptly stilled as he lifted his eyes to her with surprise. Was he dreaming again? Creating another vision of her to torment himself? But as he fought to lift to a seated position, he knew with the sharpness of his pains that she was real. "What are you doing here? You should be in bed."

Closing the remaining distance between them, she took her abandoned seat on the edge of his bedside, answering honestly, "I couldn't possibly have slept."

His eyes were occupied taking in the image of her, practically an intimate portrait in her nightclothes with her hair tumbling about her shoulders in forming curls. As she scooted ever closer, he caught the aroma of the bath salts he had purchased for her. Even then, their delicious scent had carried her name upon their intoxication. "You know," he began, his mood growing somber, "it's been quite a long time since you last slept under this roof."

Christine nodded with an unavoidable rush of guilt. Long indeed, it had been over six months ago…, six months since she had ignorantly shunned the magical world of an angel for the cold bitterness of tangible reality.

As if following the train of her thoughts with her, Erik sadly continued, "All of that time we spent together…. You knew what I was and what I had done, and…it didn't matter to you. You never really considered any of it."

She knew the rest of his unspoken accusation with a blame-filled shake of her head: then the Vicomte had stepped in and had taught her to fear her fallen angel. And Erik wasn't wrong in that. From the moment she had foolishly shared her secret with Raoul, he had proclaimed Erik the devil incarnate and had made it his mission to 'save' her from his hold on her. And trusting Raoul so completely, she had naively believed him without question.

"And where is the Vicomte?" Erik suddenly asked, shifting the subject. "I doubt he would approve of you coming into my room in your nightclothes."

"He's asleep on the couch in the living room."

"Ah yes, because he never would have allowed you to stay without his constant presence nearby."

She did not reply to his comment, disinclined to discuss Raoul; at the moment, she found that she preferred to forget his existence entirely. "You weren't asleep," she commented instead. "Are you in too much pain?"

"It's not only the pain," he revealed softly, refusing to meet her eye any longer. "Actually, I was just about to get up."

"Get up? Erik, you must be joking."

"I'm not…. I want to bathe."

"But, Erik-"

"I'm covered in dirt and blood, Christine," he interrupted, shaking his head. "I dragged myself across a sand bank, for God's sake! How could I possibly manage to be comfortable like this! You know better than anyone else how avidly I cannot tolerate such things."

The inkling of a reminiscent smile curved her lips. Yes, she did know; she had never known anyone who was as meticulous about a constant pristine and immaculate appearance as Erik.

"But, Erik," she protested, her smile gradually fading with the present's resurgence, "you can barely sit up. How are you going to bathe?"

"I'll manage."

"But, Erik-"

"Christine, I _know_ I'll feel much better if I bathe, and then I'll be able to rest."

Christine considered for a moment, taking into account his obstinate nature and the likelihood that she would actually be able to sway him, and then warily agreed to his seeming absurdity. "All right, …but let me help you."

She could tell that he was less than pleased with that idea, and yet perhaps knowing that she would attempt to halt his plans otherwise, he reluctantly nodded his consent.

Rising from the edge of the bed, Christine carefully drew the covers back from Erik's body, revealing what was left of his torn and stained suit. Always formal attire; always elegant, as if the details of his appearance that he could control made up for the ones he had no hand in, namely the oddities of his face.

"Do you even own nightclothes, or do you sleep in a suit as well?" she asked on the verge of her thoughts in a purposely-teasing tone, determined to lighten the serious air that had crept between them at their present task.

"Yes, I own nightclothes," he retorted, mimicking her, and she could not contain the slightest smile. "They're in my wardrobe."

Before he could try to do it himself, she hurried to get them. It hardly surprised her that his nightclothes were made of the finest black silk she had ever seen; he would only have the best.

Tucking the clothing beneath her arm, she rushed back to Erik's side just as he swung his legs over the side of the bed with a soft groan, pausing once in that position to let his body adjust before he tried anything more. Very slowly, on legs that shook the instant that his feet touched the floor, he attempted to rise, and even though he was trying so desperately to hide his pain from her observance, it was clearly etched across his maskless face in every constricted feature; he hardly even attempted to take a breath as though that subtle motion of lungs and ribs alone would add the final ounce of torture to break him.

Christine could feel the tears rising in the back of her throat to see him suffer, but as she reached for him with the intention of helping, he gasped out, "No!" and shot her a biting glare that was not to be argued with. Jerking her hand back into her body, she did not dare offer again.

Erik was clenching his jaw so tightly against every betraying spasm of his uncooperative body; but after a few frozen minutes as his legs grew re-accustomed to holding his weight, the pain subsided enough to be tolerated, and only guilt was left in its place.

Quickly turning his eyes to Christine, his expression was so desperately apologetic as he breathlessly bid, "I'm sorry."

She only smiled with reassurance, asking before she dared touch him a second time, "Will you let me help you now?"

Erik only nodded his weak consent, unwilling to take out any further aggravation on her, and moving alongside him, she carefully lifted his arm over her shoulders, instructing, "Lean on me. I'll help you walk."

Yielding to her willing strength, Erik slowly tried to take a step forward. It was far worse than he had considered it would be, the pain of sprained and assaulted muscles and bruised bones overwhelming him with every motion he attempted. His brow was furrowed and beading with sweat at his sheer determination to work through the worst of it. One step and then another, and a single unconsidered movement caused him to utter an exasperated moan, pausing an infuriating moment to recollect his momentum.

"Do you want me to get Raoul?" Christine urgently asked when they stopped. "He could help…. He could carry you…. Then you wouldn't have to walk."

Strangely enough, the very idea and the image it conjured to life in Erik's head, made him chuckle tightly in spite of the pain. If nothing else, it gave him the strength he needed to continue on. Taking another step, he hoarsely replied as he moved, "I think I've had quite enough of the Vicomte's condescending attitude for today."

"You and I both," Christine agreed, pleased when, even as he took another restricted step, he glanced at her with the hint of an amused grin.

"Indeed?" he gasped out with yet another step taken.

Christine could see that their conversation was keeping his mind off of the pain; well, not the conversation so much as the subject matter, and she continued without reservation. "He instructed me to bed as if I was a child."

"He's quite accustomed to ordering people around, isn't he?" Erik added as he took another step.

"Very much…." Any lightness suddenly dimmed with a rush of solemnity as she revealed, "He wouldn't let me come back to you…. I saw the mob coming, and I begged him to turn the boat around, but he wouldn't listen to me."

Nodding solemnly, Erik insisted, "That may be the one thing for which I am grateful to him."

"Grateful?"

"If you had been there, if the mob had hurt you as well, I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself…. Your safety may be the only thing that he and I can agree upon." Erik cast a glance at her, but she had lowered her eyes from his view without a spoken reply, unwilling to let him seek out her emotions for himself.

A few more steps, and they entered his bath chamber. "Here we are then," she said as she helped him to be able to stand on his own, leaning his weight against the countertop. "I'll just fill the bathtub."

Erik watched her with a silent sort of adoration as she prepared his bath. He was most surely unaccustomed to having anyone do anything for him. Simply to have someone care was a disbelieving concept in itself, and to know that it was Christine, the woman he had loved since the first time he had ever seen her, nursing him back from the brink of death, was utterly amazing and surely beyond anything he could ever deserve.

As the tub was filling with warm water, Christine turned back to face him, straight-shouldered and determined, and yet he caught the slight pink tint painting her cheeks. His eyes suddenly widened with the realization of her intentions.

"Thank you for your help," he abruptly stuttered, his knuckles clenching the counter on either side of him for reasons that went far beyond keeping himself upright. "I can manage the rest on my own."

Her blush deepened, but her expression remained resolved as she insisted, "Don't be ridiculous."

He was chewing on the inside of his lip, his stomach turning with every consideration in his head, even though it seemed utterly ridiculous to be nervous. "Even if I can't, I _will_ manage this by myself."

"You are stubborn," she accused, crossing her arms over her chest so that he would not notice that her hands were shaking. "And so am I. You and I both know that you _can't_ do this on your own. You have to let me help you…. Or if it will make you more comfortable, I can get Raoul. It's your choice."

"No," he almost growled. This was like some sort of nightmare and _certainly_ not how he had ever envisioned baring his body to her.

Desperately trying to lighten the tension that had erupted in the air, she smiled gently and said, "Don't be modest, Erik."

"Modest?" he demanded in an aghast gasp. "This is not modesty. This is…propriety…and my attempt to preserve your innocence."

"My innocence?" She laughed softly, even though her blush was yet giving her away and dubbing her as exactly as innocent as he claimed. "Erik, …but this is not about…any of those things. This is necessity. You do trust me, don't you?"

"Of course. Christine, you're the only person in the world whom I've ever trusted."

"Then let me help you." She could still see the reluctance in his eyes and knew that he was about to offer another protest, so she quickly added, "Just…don't look at me with your heart right now, Erik."

"Christine," he weakly tried to argue against what he knew was an impossibility.

"Erik, please." Her eyes showed such a genuine compassion that it made his resistance dwindle away. How long had he waited to receive such looks as his own?

He never spoke his reluctant consent; he only gave a single, jerked nod and abruptly looked away from her, seeking the courage within himself to survive this vulnerable situation…. She couldn't possibly understand….

Sliding her bare feet across the cool tile floor, Christine slowly approached him, reaching a trembling hand toward the buttons of his shirt.

"Christine, wait!" he suddenly shouted, recoiling out of her grasp. That small movement caused a wave of pain to wash through him so intense that he had to stay silent, clutching with tight fists and taut fingers to the countertop until it subsided again. When it finally faded away leaving him able to speak coherently, he hoarsely told her, "I need to explain something first."

Christine tilted her head inquiringly as her long curls tumbled of their own accord over her shoulder in ripples of coils. Blushing yet, she stammered, "I may be innocent, but I do know that there are…differences between men and women."

Erik was shaking his head. "No, no, it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"What you are going to see…." He paused as if deeply considering his every word, seeking some way to make it less of the horror that it truly was. "It…isn't very pleasant…. I have scars…, other scars."

"Like the ones on your face?" she tentatively asked, her expression darkened and any banter gone.

"No, no, …these were…made by mankind, not God."

There was a growing sense of dread creasing her pretty features as she demanded in a voice that incessantly shook, "What…what do you mean 'made by mankind'?"

He didn't reply. Showing her would give her the answers she sought more poignantly than words ever could. Leaning his weight back on the counter, his hands moved out of a will that did not even feel like his own, mechanically discarding his jacket and tie and then hesitantly unbuttoning his shirt.

She did not speak and did not attempt to stop him; she only waited for the truth to be revealed to her, a truth she was certain she had already concluded.

Erik did not look at her; he had lowered his eyes to watch his fingers as they moved with an ever-present grace from one button to the next, revealing inch after inch of his pale yet bruised skin. The last button released, and awkward due to his intermittent pains, he lowered his shirt, dropping it onto the tiled floor without a single, comprehendible thought left in his head.

Christine's hand had lifted to her mouth to conceal and stifle the gasp that threatened to escape from her lips at the horrific vision displayed to her regard. When he had said that his body bore scars, she could have never imagined…. And then to consider how they had originated…. The ones on his face he had been born with, but these…these he had suffered.

Beneath the blatant bruises of his latest assault and over his otherwise pale chest were long, upraised sections of skin, some extending in length from just below his collarbone to disappear from her view beneath the waistband of his pants. There were dozens, some criss-crossing one another and doubled in their height, some flatter and not nearly as visible. Making the damaged flesh far worse were those splotches of purple and brown, every new bruise appearing so vivid against what should have been the stark white of skin.

And then her eyes caught a reflection in the glass from the mirror behind him, and her heart dropped as if it had become a leaden weight in her chest. Similar long scars marred that skin as well down the length of his back, but far worse than that were small sections where the flesh looked as if it had sustained burns as well, pigmented pink in color. Dear Lord, had human beings done that to him, too? Had they not only beaten him but burned him as well as if he were an animal and not even a human being? Was it any wonder then that he hated humanity so much and saw human life as worthless?

During her incessant inspection, her eyes accidentally caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass, and she was startled by the shocked horror on her face and the tears that were unknowingly traveling down her cheeks. She couldn't let him see her looking at his body that way, terrified that he would mistake her compassion for disgust, and quickly wiping away tears with the backs of her hands as she sought to calm herself, she slowly closed the remaining distance between them.

Erik felt her as she neared, felt the soothing warmth radiating from her body, but he still did not look at her, not until he heard her softly call his name. As he dared to meet her eye, he noticed the remnants of the tears that had been there and was oddly humbled by their presence; she had been crying for him.

"You've endured so much pain," Christine was saying in barely more than a whisper, terrified that if she tried to speak, her voice would give out with the power of the emotions twisting within her. "Why did you never tell me?"

Tears were rimming the edges of his own eyes as he muttered, "You've always known me to be strong, Christine. But this…. I was ashamed."

Her trembling hand hesitantly rose to cup his disfigured cheek, her palm fitting about its curve. "Oh, _mon ange_," she breathed tenderly.

He was shaking his head, his entire body quivering with every terrified breath gasped into suffocating lungs. "You were so disgusted by my face. How could I ever give you any indication that that wasn't nearly the end of it?"

"You were never intending to tell me about this then?" she suddenly asked with a flicker of hurt in her blue eyes.

"Oh, Christine," he moaned as if it brought unbearable pain merely to consider it. "I hadn't yet taught you to look beyond a ravaged face and love the man beneath. How could I have asked more of you?…"

"But…eventually?" When he made no reply save to lower his eyes from her determined and penetrating stare, she answered for him, "No. You…you truly believed I would never be able to see past the scars, …that if you did show me, I would only ever be disgusted by you."

"Wouldn't you be?" he demanded in a snap. "Wouldn't _anyone_ be? This," he gestured to his scarred chest, "is abhorrent; this shows that I was weak, that I allowed them to hurt me and beat me, …that I was once their victim. If I could have gotten you to accept my face, that would have been enough. You needn't have ever known about this."

Her brow was furrowed, and even though she knew that in many ways, her own previous actions had certainly named her undeserving of his secrets, she used the full tub as her excuse to collect herself, quickly moving to turn off the water and creating the distance that she needed between them. She was not about to let this be the end of the subject, but for the moment, there were other things that needed to be done.

Turning back to him, her lips curved a bit into a wary smile as if testing the fluctuating ground between them as she told him, "Your bath is ready."

Erik glanced down at his half-clothed body and then back at her wide, continuous stare. "Will you…turn around?" Before she could speak the protest he could see forming on her lips, he insisted, "_This_ is about modesty, and even if it kills me to do so, I _will_ be doing this part on my own."

His adamancy bore no cracks that she could see, and so with a reluctant huff, she conceded, facing the opposite wall so that he could have some semblance of privacy, however contrived it was.

He had not anticipated just how difficult his task was going to be. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to do something that he had done thousands of times before and had taken for granted as he clenched his jaw through dull waves of pain. He wouldn't call her to help him, and it was that determination that fueled him onward.

Even though Christine could hear his frustrated grunts and his struggles, she obediently kept her back turned, and after a few long minutes, she caught the sound of his stumbling steps across the floor and then the soft splash of the water as he slowly managed to get himself into the tub.

"All right, Christine," he finally called to her, his voice breathless with his unavoidable fatigue. "You can turn around."

Erik was watching her intently as her eyes immediately darted to meet his. He felt terribly vulnerable within the transparent, warm cocoon of the water, and already without his consent, his body was responding to her despite the relative uneasiness of this situation. He had no apology for such a natural reaction. She may have asked him to look at her and disconnect his heart, but his body could only ever see Christine, his Christine, the only woman he had ever desired with such uncontrollable passion.

Christine shifted on her feet, unsure how to behave. The always-curious part of her was gnawing at her resistance and begging her to look and get a glimpse of every undisclosed feature of his body, and she felt her cheeks immediately grow warm and turn a betraying bright pink at such an improper thought. _Stop being a child, Christine!_ her mind scolded. She was hardly acting like the competent nurse she had claimed herself to be any longer. And yet could she possibly be detached from this scene when her patient was Erik?

Studying her very prominent blush, Erik found that he was actually amused by her discomfort and her obvious inability to hide it. "Are you feeling all right, _petite_?" he asked, teasing her a bit and delighting in his new ability to make her redden all the more so with hardly any effort at all. "You're a bit…flushed."

Her voice caught any answer in the back of her throat before she suddenly changed her mind and gave a loud huff of annoyance. She would _not_ let her curiosity overrun her again. It was utterly preposterous to be the constant victim to such a nuisance of an emotion!

Erik's brow furrowed with intrigued confusion as to his surprise, she suddenly lowered herself to the tiled floor and slowly scooted the rest of the way toward him inch by inch. Holding his eye with her resolve, she arrived beside him and set her forearms lightly atop the cool ledge of the tub.

"What are you doing?" he asked with the nervous hint of a smile.

"Keeping you company…. Would you rather that I left?"

"No," he answered instantly without giving pause to truly consider. "Don't leave." He was reminded of how long he had spent without her and concluded that even this most oddly improper of situations was far more pleasant with her nearby. He knew with an underlying sadness that he might not have these moments with her much longer and was suddenly determined to steal every second he could to sustain himself when he was again alone.

Christine was careful to keep her wandering gaze under her control as she rested her chin atop her forearms on the tub's ledge. "Are you feeling better?"

"Very much…." His expression had grown solemn and serious, his gaze caught by the gentle curve of a tendril of dark hair that rested idly along her brow. "…Why did you come back?" he suddenly asked the question that had been so heavily weighing upon his subconscious, terrified of the answer even at the same time that he was desperate to know….

And it was an answer that she did not give him. "Why did you let me go?" she posed instead. When he did not reply either, only turned away from her demanding stare, she continued to push, "You intended for me to stay; I know you did. And I chose you. I _chose_ to stay here with you."

"Yes," he replied somberly with a bitter nod. "You chose to save the man you loved."

"Erik-"

"No, don't," he interrupted abruptly as he met her gaze again, and she immediately silenced to observe the sharp pain that she saw in those mismatched orbs. When she had spent an entire day watching him suffer through the worst physical pains she could imagine, it was staggering to her that they were no comparison to the depth of the pain he was bearing inside. "You want to know why I let you go, why I did not hold you to your word, however noble it was? That was, after all, what I wanted, wasn't it? The finale I had plotted and envisioned down to every last detail…. And yet, once I had it and held it in my hands, I couldn't keep it."

"Why?" Christine demanded urgently in a whisper.

"Do you remember all of those times that you stayed here with me?" he asked with a sadness twisting his beautiful voice. "It was over six months ago, and yet I remember each and every one as if I was reliving it in my mind, every detail from what we ate together to what you were wearing. You enjoyed staying with me then before…before all of this…. It was the best time of my life. We would talk for hours…and laugh…. I didn't even know what true happiness was before you came into my life. At the very least, we were friends…. And now imagine if I had forced you to hold to your word and stay with me. You would have gone from seeing me as friend to seeing me as jailer, and instead of laughter, there would have only ever been tears. I don't think you ever would have forgiven me for taking your freedom from you…. I realized that I would rather live without you than live with you hating me for the rest of your life."

She listened to him speak intently, her brow lined with the myriad of thought and emotion assaulting her at his every word. Finally, she asked, "Then why did you go through with any of it if only to release me in the end?"

Erik actually laughed at her question, a bitter, pained laugh that bounced off of the tiled walls. "Because I was a fool! Because up until I saw you there giving your very life to save the Vicomte's, I had harbored this ridiculous delusion that if you stayed, it would be as it was six months before, that we would laugh together and sing together and know happiness together…, as though the last six months would just vanish from our memories…, a fool's illusion to be sure."

"Not a fool's illusion," she protested, shaking her head. "Maybe I wanted to forget the past six months as well…. Maybe when I made my choice…when I kissed you…." She trailed off, unsure how to explain it herself and make him understand, but before she could try, he stole her chance.

"That kiss was both the most wonderful and most horrible moment of my life…. It was all a lie, a tangible lie, …the most cruel lie I've ever known." Though he didn't wish to show his weakness, he could not keep the faintest trace of unwanted tears from rimming his eyes, quickly turning away from her regard.

But had he kept looking at her, he would have seen the same tears reflected back in her eyes. That kiss, that beautiful, pure, innocent, intimate moment…. Even if her choice had been made to save Raoul's life, the kiss, that one blissful act in the face of only pain and despair, had been true and genuine….

Forcing back the piercing brunt of her anguish, Christine leaned her cheek against the crook of her elbow and tremulously brought her hand to gently touch one of the scars on his back, tracing it with her fingertip. In a hushed tone, she stated for him, "You were burned."

Erik had to close his eyes for a moment, lost in her caress, in the feather light softness of her fingers. He wondered to himself when she had become so willing to touch him. "Yes, …when I was a young man."

She frowned, and tears slid free and silent down her cheeks to wet the sleeve of her nightdress. "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated as if the answer was only so obvious. "For bearing the face of the devil, of course. That's what they called me…, the devil's child." When she made no reply, he continued, "I was chained up like an animal and stripped naked. They took bits of twigs and dead branches or leaves or whatever they could find, lit them on fire, and threw them at me. It was a game…; it was all a game. And that was just one of the many times that I have been subject to the vicious cruelty of humanity."

Christine was sobbing softly as he spoke. It didn't seem real, like a nightmare story, surely not reality, but the marks made it real. They were the proof that could not be denied.

Her fingers continued to trace the scars, one then another and another, unable to get enough of their strange texture, and in a choked voice, she accused, "And you would have never shown me this; you would have never told me and shared with me all that you've lived through."

Tears were falling down Erik's face as well with unceasing hastiness from beneath closed lids as he concentrated on her healing touch. "You make me forget," he finally told her. "You've always made me forget, …and when we were together, you made me believe that I was just an ordinary man, not the pathetic, repulsive monster they always called me."

"Oh, _ange_," she replied, her voice trembling, "you are far more than an ordinary man."

"Christine." Erik finally turned to meet her gaze and saw that mirror of tears in her eyes. As he watched incredulously, she lifted her head and leaned in close until she could press her lips in a reverent kiss against one of the scars on the back of his shoulder. She lingered there, her tears tumbling down to strike his skin as an uncontainable sob tore from Erik's throat.

Resting her cheek against his back, Christine felt and shared every heaved motion of his grief as her bleary gaze fixed on scarred skin and studied every mark to where they blurred beneath the surface of the water. She was infatuated with the image, with his back and its perfect line despite the skin's imperfections, and then the curve of his buttocks, hazily outlined beneath the water's surface. This was improper; the entire situation was indecent. And yet sharing such a scene with Erik hardly felt wrong. No, it was the absolute opposite. It felt comfortable, as if they had done this a hundred times before, as if being this intimate and sharing this much was simply meant to happen.

As his tears were subsiding, Christine drew back to set her arms once again on the tub's ledge as she waited for him to slowly face her.

And as those mismatched eyes found her, Erik studied her as if he could not believe that she even existed. Six months before the Christine that he had known had always avoided his touch in spite of how close they had been. So much so, in fact, that he had resigned himself to only ever settle for her companionship. Even in his great plan to have her choose to stay with him, he had never hoped for anything more than that. This woman before him now was different; this entire moment was different.

"Christine." He let her name tease his lips, delighting in every letter as though that one word alone was a song, the melody of which was inspired by the blatant beauty of her soul.

With fingers that quivered, he lifted his hand from the water's cocoon and captured one of her long curls, entwining it around his wet fingers and drawing her closer with each twirl. Closer and closer until their faces were only inches apart. He stared into the endless depths of her clear blue eyes.

"You never answered my question," Erik whispered, intoxicated by the brushing of her every breath as it flitted across his jaw. "Why did you come back?"

"Because a world without you in it holds no joy for me," she answered as the true extent of her emotions danced in her gaze. "…We turned every bit of this into a beautiful tragedy, and we've sinned against one another so completely and hurt each other so deeply. And is it only in doing so that we can end here…like this? It's ironic…and cruel."

"It's life," he corrected her. "But tell me, Christine _belle_, what exactly is the end of our story? Will it be the tragedy you've dubbed it, or is it yet unwritten?"

She knew she had no answer for him that he would want to hear and demanded somberly, "Why do you ask such things of me now?"

Keeping her captive and close by her twined lock of hair, Erik's eyes lazily traveled from hers to her full lips as memories of their delicious softness flashed in his mind. The urge to give in and kiss her again was so powerful, tempting him to surrender to it, to taste her. "Because you make me hope for what I believed I could never have."

"Hope is dangerous." Practically reading his thoughts, her own eyes were glancing furtively to his misshapen mouth as delicious sensations made her spine tingle. Once before, she had run away from these feelings, had feared them and the complete loss of control they brought. And then one single time, she had succumbed to them and had let them overwhelm her through one kiss, one attestation to her heart, and in that moment, she had discovered the power and pleasure they could have, more so than she had ever known could exist. And realizing now how near they were to her grasp, she wanted only to feel them again.

"Dangerous?" Erik inquired with a rising of one brow. "Hope has sustained me through everything I've had to endure. It is a blessing, and yet it can also be a curse…." His free hand of its own will came to cup her cheek, his fingers so warm and wet on her skin as droplets of water tumbled free and trailed her jaw. "This…this right now is dangerous…. It's fire, …and even as I am engulfed in flames, I ache for more. I ache to be burned alive, consumed flesh and blood until all that remains is a charred soul."

"Erik," she whispered. Was it a pleading for more or a warning to cease? She did not know the answer herself, not when the right emotions and the wanted ones were entirely different from one another.

His voice had grown thick and husky with his desperate need to kiss her, and if she had dared to glance down the length of his body, she would have seen the extent of his desire, hard and protruding and throbbing with a dull ache that stole reason as he murmured, "I have never wanted anything as I want you."

The sounds of their quickened breaths echoed off of the tile surrounding them, resounding like a symphony of desire through the room. As Erik's wet fingers caressed her cheek, marveling over the softness of her skin, he whispered desperately, "Christine, …how I want to kiss you!"

As his words penetrated the hazy spell of desire enshrouding her, she suddenly shook her head and drew back out of his yielding hold as he reluctantly conceded to release her.

"We've been in this place once before," she explained solemnly to the hurt rejection in his mismatched gaze. "I chose you. I kissed you…, and you called it a lie…. And would now be any different to you? Would you see this as a lie as well?"

"Christine-"

"Those were your words, Erik. You said that kiss was a lie, …a cruel lie," she interrupted, "when it was the closest to truth that we've ever been."

Erik was staring at her in utter bewilderment, trying to accept what she was saying…. But he would not let himself fathom what it could mean. "Tell me then. Tell me why you kissed me if not to save your Vicomte."

"I cannot answer what I don't know myself, but I do know that I didn't need to kiss you to save Raoul's life, …and I know what I felt, …and it wasn't a lie." She paused. The velvet thickness of the desire still hung potently in the air, and it created hazy wisps of incoherency in her mind; and she knew that she needed to escape it if only to breathe. Devising an excuse, however flimsy she knew it was, she quickly insisted, "I'm going to go and put fresh blankets on your bed. When I finish, I'll help you get out of the tub. You will let me, won't you?"

Erik nodded numbly, his thoughts still turning over and over her words, desperately trying to find some plausible explanation in their meager phrases. He only half-noticed as she softly rose and went into his bedroom, leaving him alone with an addled head.

He had been so certain that the kiss that had meant the world to him had meant nothing more to her than Raoul's freedom. It had been, in his mind, a final manipulation perfected by her superior skills as an actress and playing cruelly on his emotions, a form of sacrificing herself beneath the pure white light of her love for the Vicomte. That kiss had been what had made Erik so certain that he had had to let her go rather than be tortured by the lie of what would never be…. But she said it wasn't a lie…. And if it wasn't a lie, if she had acted with even a fraction of what he himself felt, …then he never should have let her leave with the Vicomte that night. Of course, that decision could not be undone, …but perhaps this was his second chance to finally have what he wanted….

A little later, Christine returned, the sweet smile once again present on her lips as she approached, towel in hand. "You have fresh blankets awaiting you, so you should be able to sleep much more pleasantly now."

Even though Erik tried to seem grateful, his head was yet in a turmoil with his unceasing thoughts. "Thank you," he muttered distantly.

Christine's happy façade never faltered for even a moment as she asked, "Can I help you get out of the tub now?"

"Oh, …yes…." Erik hadn't the ability left to argue modesty. He was disinclined to admit it aloud, but he knew that if not for her aid, he likely would have been stranded there all night, his body too exhausted to do his bidding any longer.

It was awkward. She wasn't physically that strong herself, but with Erik's bit of remaining determination and muscles that were soothed from the heated water, she was able to help him from the tub. Before she could make any attempt to dry him off as he saw was her intention, he grabbed the towel away from her and proceeded to do it himself.

Rolling her eyes slightly at his ridiculousness, Christine went to collect his nightclothes from where she had left them on the counter. Once they were in hand, she turned back to him, …and she just stared.

Scars and bruises aside, his body was beautiful, muscled, masculine, sculpted. She knew that she should feel embarrassed to be gawking so openly, but he was so engrossed in his task that he thankfully did not even notice. When he had been in the bathtub, she had been overly careful to keep her eyes to herself, but now she could not control her curiosity, willingly allowing it to overwhelm her and taking in every detail of him with wide blue eyes and an oddly disconcerting warmth in her stomach. Erik was not an overly large man in build; in truth, he had always seemed almost frail compared with the towering presence of the Vicomte, but now Christine could see that he actually bore the perfect balance of muscle to mass, each tendon perfectly chiseled and defined for her to admire.

And then her innocent eyes drifted to that most masculine part of him, guided by eager curiosity's urging, and she took in its perfect construction with a strangely overwhelming rush of sensation that made the breath flee her lungs in a silent sigh. It surprised her to realize that she was so overcome with the desire to touch him, to learn the texture of the flesh there, to study his every response to such an intimate caress, and the tips of her every finger were tingling with the irrepressible need to simply act. To touch….

Reluctantly, her eyes traveled away and back up his body only to find his penetrating gaze solely locked on her. She felt her cheeks grow red with the horrified flush that raced through her body. How long had he been watching her stare at him? …Could he guess what she was thinking? Was it that obvious?

Stumbling over her words, she managed to stammer, "Your nightclothes." And as she averted her wide eyes to look anywhere else, she hurried back to his side and ungracefully helped him dress, however well she could manage without actually looking at him at the same time.

Erik wanted to laugh at how absurd she was being even as he was utterly intrigued. Her curiosity was natural, of course, but as he had watched her, he had seen far more than just inquisitiveness in her expression, and it was not the disgust and revulsion he had been expecting.

Christine's blush was still blazing across her cheeks, even after he was concealed in his nightclothes with his body hidden from any sort of view. If Erik's greatest vice was his temper, then hers was her curiosity; it always caused such horrendous trouble for her.

"If you are so determined never to acknowledge my presence again, then that is just fine, but can you at least help me to get to the bed?" he teased, trying to lighten the sense of weighted dread on her face.

"I'm sorry," she suddenly interjected, finally daring to meet his eye in idle peeks.

"What have you to be sorry for?"

"I've embarrassed you," she replied guiltily.

"No, you haven't," he protested matter of factly. "You've embarrassed yourself, though I can't understand why. There was nothing worthy of such shame in your actions."

"But I wasn't being very proper or respectful towards you."

A laugh escaped his misshapen lips at her comment. "I don't think that I fit into your categories of propriety. And besides that, since when has our relationship ever followed any rules of etiquette? As to respectful, I argue that since I was not embarrassed, then respect should not be considered an issue."

She still would not look at him in anything beyond a furtive glance as she demanded with a cringe, "How can you not be embarrassed? I was ogling you so rudely."

"Forgive me for that then; it is an unusual circumstance for me. I am not accustomed to being looked at with anything other than disgust." Though the admission was genuine and broaching a raw, hurt-filled topic, Erik's tone was light and amused with a flutter of a chuckle, and at its appealing sound, she succumbed to a hesitant smile of her own.

"I don't understand how that's possible," she admitted with a shyness that made her voice nothing more than a soft whisper. "I saw nothing to inspire disgust…."

Christine said nothing more, ducking her head low to avoid the sudden fixation of his incredulous stare as she helped him to bed, able to do little more than watch as he clenched his jaw against the pain and lowered himself to lay among the soft covers.

"Well, …you were moving better at least," she optimistically offered.

Only the tightness of his voice gave away the true extent of his suffering as he replied, "It was the bath…in addition to the care of my brilliant nurse."

She beamed with a glowing smile under his praises. "That was a given. And now, my dear monsieur, I am going to tidy up the bathroom while you try and get some rest."

"All right," he reluctantly conceded. "But promise me that you won't leave until I can say goodnight to you."

"I promise." With a final lingering look that bore far more words than she was apt to utter, she hurried back to the other room to get to work, impatient already to return.

A little bit later, when she finally gave up her task and came back to Erik's bedchamber, she found him awaiting her with eyes that swallowed her in their mismatched gaze the moment they landed on her. "You're supposed to be asleep," she chided, hoping he wouldn't see how easily flustered she became under that stare alone.

"I wanted to be sure that I'd see you again." Erik would never admit to how exhausted he truly was and how determined he had been not to give in despite the heaviness of his eyelids and the lethargy of his body, fighting sleep with every remaining bit of his willpower.

To his utter surprise and delight as he continued to watch her intently, she came to the foot of the bed and wearily crawled atop the mattress, continuing upward to the pillow beside Erik's and then collapsing in a heap of nightdress and tangled curls. After a dramatic sigh, she rolled over to face him, lifting herself on her elbow.

"Do you mind terribly if I stay here with you for awhile?" She asked a question that could only be deemed improper and yet with such blatant timidity saturating every syllable. Improper? As he had said, what was propriety to them anyway? She was equally as certain as he was that its rules did not exist for them.

There was no declining such a longed for request, but he was so overcome simply by her nearness and the very vision of her laying on his bed that he almost didn't answer, finally collecting enough of a voice to mutter, "Of course."

Smiling sweetly and innocently all the while, she lifted herself enough to burrow beneath the warm blankets and curled up on her side, facing him as he watched every movement, utterly mesmerized by her every detail. Dear Lord, he could immediately feel the rush of warmth from her body, penetrating him to his core. If he just reached out, he could touch her, and the idea of it thrilled and shocked him at the same time.

But as reality began to return in vivid streaks, he felt his elation darken. "But what about the Vicomte? I don't think he'll much appreciate learning where you slept tomorrow."

Her blue eyes, lazy and languid now with growing fatigue, met his, unaltered by his question as if such a seemingly imperative consideration mattered nothing to her. "I will be back in my room before Raoul ever awakens…. I'm just so delightfully comfortable and warm right now that I don't much feel like going back to my cold, lonely bed."

"And I don't want you to leave either," he quickly insisted, taking her reasoning as valid enough.

Closing her eyes, a smile curved the corners of her lips, and far too exhausted to let her conscience hinder her words, she dared to inquire, "Erik, you intended to marry me, didn't you?"

He was watching her intently, suddenly no longer tired as he studied the crescent shapes her dark lashes formed against her creamy cheeks. Sleep could wait when this moment could very well never happen again.

"Yes," he answered softly and hesitantly, "but not in the sense that you are accustomed to."

Her brow furrowed, but her eyes remained closed as she was sure that if she had been looking at him, she could never continue to be so blunt. "But the dress and the veil…."

"We wouldn't have been married by a priest or in a church. It would have been a vow, a marriage that only existed between you and I. We wouldn't have been a part of the rest of the world and proper society, so what would it have mattered anyway?"

"It would have mattered to me. If I were going to marry you, I would want it blessed in a church before God."

In a church. Erik could not remember the last time he had dared to enter a church. Though it wasn't a very sensible belief to hold to, part of him was certain that he would be burned alive if he dared walk into such a sacred place with the dark sins he carried on his soul.

In a church…. Suddenly, his expression grew dark with rising melancholy. "Is that what you and the Vicomte are planning? A wedding ceremony in a church before God?"

Christine's blue eyes fluttered open abruptly, her brows knitting with discontented lines as she hastily requested, "Can we please not mention Raoul right now?"

"I don't see how we couldn't. What we were discussing was a future that did not transpire, but Raoul is your fiancé, and your impending marriage is the very real future to come."

"At the moment, I am enjoying entertaining the fantasy…even if it can't be real." Sighing as she closed her eyes again, she burrowed her cheek deeper into the pillow and sweetly bid, "Tell me what our marriage would have been like and our life together."

Erik hesitated. He knew how wrong it was to succumb to this impossible dream when it was the very image of his heart's desire; it could only destroy him in the end, but it was far too tempting to play the game with her as she so innocently lay beside him in his bed, the nearest she'd ever been to him. "I…I imagined it would not be much different than the way our life together was six months ago. We were happy just to spend time together then."

"Well, yes, but…isn't there more to marriage?"

"I would have been satisfied with that," he softly admitted. "That was all I expected. I would have never asked you for more."

Even though her eyes were shut and he could not read her expressions, her mind was reeling behind her lids. "But…I thought…," she trailed off with a flicker of disappointment that she could not quell. "And…did you intend for us to continue living here?"

"Not for long," he answered with a shake of his head. "I did make _some_ plans. I anticipated buying you a cottage outside of the city…or anywhere you chose. Destination didn't matter to me as long as I was with you…. I was going to offer you the world…. Paris, Rome, London, America even, wherever your heart desired."

"A cottage," she repeated with the faint touch of a smile that made her languid features seem to glow with an internal light. "And you wouldn't have minded giving up your dark cellars?"

"You are a creature of the light; I always knew that to keep you, I would have to venture up into the world despite my aversion to it. With you by my side, I knew I could endure anything."

If she had opened her eyes, he would have seen the sudden yearning that overcame her, the sudden wish that the life he had been planning had come to fruition. "A cottage," she breathed once again, and she could almost see an image of it in her mind's eye, "that I would make into a home for us…. You'd have an entire room just for your music with a brilliant piano, and you could spend your afternoons composing with all of the windows open and the breeze and the sunlight streaming in."

"It would certainly be an adjustment from years of composing in the dark," he commented with a hint of his own smile.

"Oh, you'd learn to love it quickly, considering how many mornings we'd spend having our breakfast outside on our porch and how many evenings we'd watch the sunset on a blanket in our yard." She paused and timidly opened her eyes to regard his incredulous expression. "How utterly rude of me to take over your story like that!"

"Not at all." In his eyes was an intensity that made her shiver from the nape of her neck down the length of her spine. "You speak of these things, and I fall into the dream that you are creating…, and…I never want it to end…. It's everything I could ever want and believed I could never have…even if it isn't real."

Christine quietly listened as he spoke, and as the true hopelessness began to filter in, she grew sullen. "Yes, …it isn't real…, but it is a wonderful dream." Unavoidably somber, she closed her eyes again and softly bid, "You should rest, Erik. Sleep will help you heal."

The magical illusion had evaporated like a bittersweet memory of another life, and with a sense of mourning for its fairytale trappings, Erik reluctantly replied, "Sleep well, Christine."

"Goodnight, Erik," she whispered back. She didn't look at him again; she didn't have the strength to face the sadness she knew that she would find. It was late, and she was too exhausted. In minutes, sleep began to steal over her, and she willingly gave in to its offered release, feeling her limbs grow heavy and a sense of peace warming and comforting her.

Erik did not find rest as easily. For a long time by the dwindling light of the dying embers in the hearth, he watched her. And though it wasn't appropriate to do so, he let himself fall back into the fantasy she had weaved. It was simple with her sleeping beside him to envision that they were married, that they were beginning their life together, that everything she had spoken of was not fantasy but the definite course of their awaiting future. So deeply he fell into that portrait that by the time he did find sleep, his weary mind believed it as truth and brought him dreams of a pale blue cottage with a large white porch. And as he slept, a smile played on his scarred, bruised features….


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Christine emerged from her bedroom, clothed in a petal pink gown from her armoire as if she had been locked in its confines for the duration of every dark hour. It had been almost dawn when she had left Erik's bed and had silently crept back to her own, and yet she could still remember the way it had felt to awaken beside him. So warm, so natural…; staring at the relaxed features of that malformed face as if she had done so dozens of times before. The considered image of it alone kept a secretive smile tingeing the corners of her lips and a certain sparkle in her eyes that she prayed Raoul would not notice.

With a slight skip to her steps, Christine went straight to the kitchen to begin breakfast. In the back of her mind was a memory of the mornings when she had awoken under this roof to find Erik making breakfast for her, greeting her with an amazed smile, as if he still could not believe that she had stayed with him. He had often seemed that way, pleasantly delighted and yet entirely shocked that she had not vanished in the night and left him. Of course, this morning there was no one to meet her except a cold, dark kitchen that had only haphazardly been straightened up, and with a soft sigh, she immediately went to work searching the cupboards for something to make.

It was while she was stirring a pot of porridge on the stove that Raoul appeared in the kitchen doorway. He looked a mess, his fine clothes wrinkled, his hair disheveled, as if he had spent more of the night tossing and turning than actually sleeping.

"Good morning, Raoul," she cheerily called, smile never dimming.

He grunted in response, rubbing wearily at his temples and abruptly demanded, "Coffee?"

"Oh, Erik doesn't drink coffee, so there is none here. He only likes Indian teas." It took all of her control to suppress the laugh that threatened at the belligerent look the Vicomte shot her in return.

"You must be joking," he insisted.

"No, I'm not…. I can make you some tea if you like. Erik has them imported. They're a bit…different than what you are accustomed to."

Raoul shook his head in annoyance. "Don't bother. I have an errand to run anyway, which will now include coffee."

"An errand? Where are you going?" she inquired as she idly stirred breakfast. Even as she pretended that it was inconsequential information, her mind was elated to know that he was leaving.

"Oh, to see Mother. She gets worried when she doesn't know my whereabouts, and since we were gone all night with no explanation, she is sure to be in a panic."

"What…are you going to tell her? Not the truth, I hope?"

"I should say not. I don't think she will react well to the news that I spent the night in the home of the man who tried to murder me." When Christine gave him a perturbed glare, he held up his hands defenselessly and sweetly bid, "Don't be angry, darling. I am not searching for a fight with you on this most unpleasant of mornings, especially when I have yet to have had my coffee. I'm just going to tell my mother that we traveled out of the city for the night as a means of a relaxing escape. Considering all we've been through lately, I know that she'll be quite understanding. And while I am gone, I thought that I would try to reinstate our passage for our extended holiday."

Christine gave the porridge a final stir before she turned to face him, shaking her head doubtfully even before she spoke her obvious protests. "Raoul, we can't possibly leave now. Erik still needs-"

"He'll be fine!" Raoul interrupted, quickly capturing her hands in his. "You've done what you wanted. You saved his life. And now it's time for us to go on with ours."

"And what do you propose we do? Just leave him?"

"Why not?"

"He can barely move," she insisted with equaled annoyance at the Vicomte's ridiculousness. "How can he possibly take care of himself? …How can you truly be heartless enough to ask me to leave him now?"

"Again, you call me heartless…." She knew she had dealt him a sharp blow with that, glimpsing the hurt expression in his eyes and knowing only guilt for it as he somberly insisted, "If I was as heartless as you perceive me to be, I never would have let you come down here in the first place."

Christine had grown silent, biting back any more protesting remarks that lingered on her tongue, and following the pull of her guilt instead, she softly whispered, "I'm sorry."

Raoul nodded even though he obviously did not believe her sentiment, adding, "I just want what is best for you, what you deserve, what _we_ deserve."

"I understand that, but until Erik is better, I can't consider leaving Paris…or this house."

"Christine-"

"You can't change my mind, Raoul…. He needs me."

Raoul was fuming, but he didn't dare let her see it, clasping every bit of his aggravation tightly within as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "We can discuss it later, darling. You're busy at the moment anyway, cooking…." He glanced over her shoulder into the pot with an arching brow. "What is that exactly?"

"Porridge," she replied flatly with a modicum of her annoyance attached.

Grimacing through his contrived smile, Raoul muttered, "Well, …if you don't mind, I think that I'll get breakfast out." With an added quick kiss to her cheek as she fought not to recoil, he told her, "I'll return in a few hours."

She nodded without reply and watched him leave, knowing a surreptitious rush of relief the instant the front door closed behind him as if a large weight had been lifted from her shoulders with his departure.

Once she had the porridge simmering gently on the stove, Christine impatiently hurried down the hall to Erik's room, quietly opening the door without a knock to betray her intruding presence.

Erik had been asleep, but he stirred immediately at the softest creak and moan that the door bellowed with its motion. His first impulse was to glance at the empty space of mattress beside him. He would have assumed her presence to have only been a dream if not for the mussed sheets and the indentation in the pillow's feathers of her silhouette.

And then as he raised his eyes to the doorway and his guest, he smiled, breathing, "You are as brilliant as the sunshine, but far more beautiful."

It was as though his words produced the very warmth of the sun he spoke of as she beamed with a grateful grin. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"And yet can I imagine a more exquisite vision to awaken to?" Even as he would have preferred to spend countless hours admiring her and her astounding presence in his home and his life, he reluctantly glanced at the clock near his bed with a slight cringe. "It is quite late, isn't it? Usually, I am up well before dawn."

"You're healing; that's a valid excuse, or so says your nurse," she insisted, coming alongside his bed now that she was out of the direct line of his penetrating stare and able to find the ability to move again on trembling legs. "And…how are you feeling this morning?"

Erik experimentally attempted to shift his body, and though his muscles gave an unaccommodating ache, he had to admit that it was less intense and debilitating. "Better, thank you. I told you a hot bath would help." Casting a quick glance to the open doorway behind her, he ventured to ask, "And how is the Vicomte? I trust he spent a pleasant night on the couch."

Christine giggled to herself with the memory of Raoul's bedraggled appearance. "I doubt he'd call it pleasant. After the lavish, luxury mattresses he's accustomed to, I daresay the couch did not treat him as well."

Shrugging idly, Erik replied, "I think that couch is quite comfortable. Oftentimes when I am engrossed in composing for hours on end and have worked nearly all the night through, I take small breaks and nap on that couch."

"Yes, I seem to remember finding you asleep there a few times." The memory brought an even brighter smile to her lips.

As he mirrored her sentiment, he added with the hint of a delighted sigh, "And I seem to remember awakening with a blanket that I never actually covered myself with before I went to sleep." That was one of his favorite memories, a sweet, seemingly inconsequential act that he had appreciated far more than she could imagine. Pushing the thought away for the moment, he reluctantly forced his better sense to ask, "And where is the Vicomte?"

Skirting the brunt of the unpleasantness that had crept into his voice, she idly strolled to the armoire to select a change of clothes for him as she lightly answered as if it was an afterthought, "He returned home to see his mother. He said she'd be in a panic not knowing where he was all night."

"Truly?" There was a slight chuckle in his voice so surprisingly sudden in its appearance that Christine had to glance past the armoire door and meet his amused eye with an astounded grin that transformed into a laugh to mimic his.

"He's always been close to his mother," she replied, continuing to giggle to herself.

"But he's a grown man…. Is that the customary relationship of a mother and son?" Erik was shaking his head with the ridiculousness of such an idea. "I truly can't believe it is. _If_ it is, then it makes me suddenly glad that my mother wanted nothing to do with me."

The laughter in Christine's eyes immediately dimmed with his words, even though he spoke them with such a lack of true emotion at their base. "I'm sorry, Erik."

"Don't be. It's hardly worth feeling sorry about." Erik studied her for a long time before carefully adding, "On the subject of mothers, you are the only one between us worthy of knowing sympathy and compassion. Given the option, I would rather just forget mine." Mercifully dropping the subject completely before she could voice the argument he could see forming, he returned his previous amicable air and asked, "Have you eaten yet?"

Arms laden with an assortment of clothing, she closed the armoire door and strode to the foot of the bed, laying various articles out on the mattress for his choosing. "No, but I made porridge if you want me to bring you some."

"No, I think I should like to eat with you in the dining room, if you don't mind."

Christine arched one dark brow skeptically. "Are you certain that you are up to that?"

"Quite," he insisted inarguably, and as if to prove himself, he shoved the covers away and, though unsteady and wobbling ever so slightly, he managed to rise to his feet without leaning back onto the bed for support. "Now you go on ahead. I'll get dressed and join you in the dining room in a few minutes."

She was still hesitant to comply, her eyes scrutinizing him as if seeking a break in his countenance. "But…if you need me, you will call, won't you?"

"Yes, of course," he conceded with a reassuring smile as he desperately sought to conceal any lingering aches from her view. "I promise you, Christine."

"…All right…. I'll go and set the table." She paused a moment longer, warily surveying him one last time before she slowly left the room.

It was of no surprise to her that he did not call for aid, and as the minutes ticked by and she awaited him in the dining room, she began to worry. Stubborn man! Finally, unable to endure attempting patience any longer, she rose from the table and went to seek him out. Even if he did not want to concede to ask for her help, she was determined to offer it.

But surprisingly, she did not have to go far to find him. Erik stood, stoic and somber, in the doorway of the living room, staring absently at the scene. Even though he looked a bit like his old self, clean and perfectly orderly in one of his usual suits, without his mask to hide behind, his present expression showed far more emotion than he would usually let on.

Coming quietly alongside him, Christine peered into the room to take in the image he seemed so fixated upon, and she immediately understood. Though Raoul had straightened up the worst of the mess left by the mob, it was quite evident the sort of destruction that had been inflicted. Things were missing here and there, figurines, precious souvenirs, shattered and broken and gone. To her and to Erik, the bare spaces where these things had sat went on for volumes and screamed emptily into the silence. The couch had been salvaged, but the beautifully carved arms and legs bore deep gashes in their wood, like permanent scars. Much of the other furniture was left in random pieces, tables lacking legs and even the deep marking of a sword's blade into the intricate carvings around the hearth of the fireplace.

Christine felt an ache in her heart, but that ache turned to a gaping hole when she saw the exact spot where he was staring so intently. In one corner of the room were a handful of pipes from his glorious pipe organ, having been carelessly strewn there from the music room and collected into a pile.

"Erik," she called gently, laying her hand atop his arm with that ever-present flicker of compassion in her eyes.

Almost reluctant to tear his stare from the horror, Erik slowly turned to her, forcing a fraction of a smile to his lips. "Well, …I had been contemplating redecorating for some time now. This will provide the perfect opportunity."

"But your pipe organ…."

There was a flash of sadness in his eyes at the mere mention of it, but he buried away the lump that threatened to form in his throat and stammered, "It is…a heartbreaking loss, but I built it…. I can build another…." Abruptly shoving the image of the remaining pieces from his head, he focused all of his attention only on Christine. "Is breakfast ready? I am quite famished this morning."

She nodded, but even as she attempted a cheerful façade, in her heart, she felt the loss as poignantly as he did. But she did not tell him that. She just caught Erik's hand in hers, and interweaving their fingers so that their palms were pressed flush together, she slowly led him toward the dining room and away from the damage.

Breakfast was like a moment pulled out of the past. They sat and ate together, talking and laughing with such ease as if time and immeasurable pains had never passed in between. To her delight, Erik was in much better spirits, and if not for the lingering bruises on his unmasked face, it was almost easy to forget all that had transpired.

But after they had finished and Christine had cleared the table and returned to take her seat across from him, she noted a sudden change in his demeanor, a seriousness that had stolen away the jovial man she had only just dined with.

"Erik? …What is it? What's wrong?"

He met her concerned gaze as his own flashed with a peculiar intensity. "There is something we need to discuss, something that is torturing my brain with thoughts that my rational mind knows that I have no right to entertain."

"…What do you mean?" she apprehensively asked even as a part of her was terrified to hear his answer.

"Last night…what you said…, you changed everything, Christine…," he breathed, staring at her with such an unhidden fervency that she felt shaken simply to glimpse its presence. "If there had been a chance…, even an _inkling_ of a chance, I never would have let you leave…. I never would have given you up if I had known I could have had you…."

"Erik…," she whispered, unsure what to say or how to react. Her sense was insisting that she must stop him from saying more even as her heart yearned to hear it.

"I had assumed that that kiss was a lie…," he revealed desperately. "I wouldn't even let myself consider that it could have been anything other than that…. And then you tell me that my assumptions were wrong, and I can think of nothing else…." Timid in his every movement, he reached across the table and captured her hand in his, his hold gentle and loose, daring her to be the one to end this and pull away and pleased when she didn't. It was an oddity to him still to initiate any form of physical contact, and he wondered if she could tell, if she knew that the reason his hand trembled as it held hers was because he was suddenly nervous and even afraid. "I am not prince charming," he was continuing somberly. "I could never give you the ending that the Vicomte could give you. But I could give you love…, far more love than you've ever known…. The Vicomte could never love you even a fraction as much as I do, and you know that…. He could never love you for the incredible woman you are."

"But he _does_ love me," Christine insisted, feeling the strange need to justify the absent Vicomte.

"Yes, but he loves the idea of you more. You cannot tell me that in some way, you haven't already realized that."

Her eyes drifted away from his to their joined hands, studying the portrait they made as they so perfectly twined together. "I am his trophy…, his prize for challenging and overcoming the notorious Opera Ghost, …and in reality, he didn't beat you at all; you spared his life and gave him me as compensation."

"No." Erik's free hand darted forward to cup her cheek, tilting her face until she would meet his angrily flashing, suddenly serious stare. "No, Christine, no. I did not _give_ you to him. You were _never_ mine to give…, or so I had thought. I had thought I was granting you your heart's true desire…."

She shook her head miserably against his palm. "I had told you my heart's true desire in the essence of one kiss, and you presumed me to be lying to you."

"Yes, I did, and I beg forgiveness for my ignorance…. I beg for another chance…. Isn't that what all of this has been?… You saved my life; did you do so just to abandon me again?"

The intensity of his gaze as if his very existence depended on her answer made her heart ache in her chest, and tears filled her eyes as she reluctantly shook her head again, sadly bidding, "I…I can't give you the answer you want, Erik. I wish I could…; I wish that this was the way things were, that we were living this ending, just you and I together, but Raoul will return shortly and we will be reminded that this isn't our ending at all."

"It can be," he insisted fervently, carefully lowering himself to the floor so that he could kneel at her feet and clasping her hands in his as if her hold was his anchor. "Christine, I beg of you not to shatter both of our hearts…. I came back to life for you, because of you. If I am to be doomed still to my miserable, solitary existence, I would have preferred death…; a life without you is far worse than any eternity of hellfire and damnation." Erik was growing desperate as the tears continued to spill over her cheeks in shimmering paths. "And even if you are still afraid to admit that you could love me, I can love enough for both of us…. If there is even part of you that wants what I offer, that has pondered what our life together would be like, especially after we fantasized it together last night, then all you must do is be brave enough to indulge it. Be willing to take that chance with me, and I will give you every bit of myself in return…. You already own my heart and my soul; you need but state your claim."

Christine was continuing to softly cry as she whispered, "I can't lie to you or to my heart. I won't tell you that I don't want a life with you, …that the things we spoke of last night don't make my heart swell and warm." He was beginning to smile, but her expression never changed as she shook her head sorrowfully in a stern denial. "I won't lie to you…, but I can't have you."

"Don't, Christine," Erik ordered with a sudden sharpness. "You're destroying us both."

"Yes, I am," she sadly agreed, her voice catching in a sob before she could go on. "…Your future doesn't lie with me, Erik; it lies somewhere else…. And mine…mine lies with the Vicomte."

The hurt that creased the disfigured features of his face made them twist and contort unpleasantly. "Is it the title that you are so set upon, or is it the wealth? The social lift perhaps?"

Christine's brow was lined with deep indentures as she insisted, "You know me better than that. You know I have no taste for such trivialities. My younger self may have delighted in society's materialism, but knowing you has changed that and has shown me the frivolity of such a world. You…made me want and seek so much more."

"Then why, Christine?" Erik demanded with the bitter tinge of anger in his healing voice. "Why?"

Drawing one hand free, she slowly lifted it to caress his scars, so tensely tight with the internal pain he was suffering, and as her fingertip traced every constricted feature, wishing she could soothe them again, she reluctantly answered, "Because I made a vow. After all Raoul has done for me…; he even indulged me on this mission to save you when he had every right to force me to go to London with him. Even if you don't like him, he _is_ a good man, and I may not feel for him as I do for you, but I do care about him. He has always been my dearest friend, and I won't hurt him…. I don't want to hurt anyone else, Erik; please understand that. I hate knowing that I am able to cause people such pain and ruin lives as I have already done to yours."

With a sudden ferocity that made her jump, he lifted himself up on his knees and caught her face between his hands, his own only inches away as his mismatched stare penetrated her blue eyes nearly to her core. "You are right," he hissed between clenched teeth. "I know you; I know you better than anyone ever could. And I know that you belong here…with me, that you would never be happy in that life."

"It's my sacrifice to make…. I made a vow-"

"And a few nights ago, you made a choice…, nobly to save the Vicomte's life, but as you have admitted yourself, there was far more to it than that. That choice is more honest than the vow, so is it not unfair to keep up the vow's pretenses?"

"Unfair to you and I, but to Raoul, the vow is all that matters."

Erik's fingertips slid along her hairline against her scalp even as his palms kept pressed with a forced lightness to her cheeks, never exerting the real pressure of every tensed muscle upon her flesh. "You are killing me, Christine…; even as you only just saved my life, you are now ending it."

Her tears were striking his hands, streaming between his every finger as they created meandering paths down her face, and she desolately whispered, "I'm sorry, _ange_. I fear I am killing myself as well…."

Before he could rationalize himself or regret the impulse, he suddenly leaned in to her and caught her trembling lips in a desperate kiss, and to his surprise, she kissed him back without hesitation as silent, soul-shattering tears mingled with every grazing of flesh.

The last kiss had been little more than a blur in her memory from an emotion-filled night. This one was unrushed, untainted by the heaviness of the choice he had been forcing her to make. It was gentle and yet lined with such fervency that she quivered to endure it. She was concentrating on memorizing the sensation of his misshapen lips against hers, the delicious tingle that ran the length of her spine, the surge of heat that radiated through her belly and along every limb. She had never known anything could exist with such intensity; it seemed to steal away rationality and common sense, so that only the passion mattered. The one comprehensive thought flitting through her hazy, clouded mind was that she never wanted this moment to end.

Erik was eagerly lost in her, drowning without hope of being saved and yet savouring the very idea of suffocation under her spell. She was everything, the air he breathed, the softness against his fingers and his lips, the warmth penetrating through his clothing to sear his flesh. With a deliberate gentleness, he moved his mouth against hers, encouraging her to follow his lead, cupping her face between his hands as if she was a most fragile treasure that would shatter if he dared to hold it too tight.

Almost without impetus, reality returned in a cold blow, bursting into their bubble and assaulting her mind with a rush of guilt. Abruptly under its urging, she pulled away, shrinking from his tempting kiss.

"No, stop," she feebly commanded, and he reluctantly drew back enough to clear the spinning threads of desire from thickening their webs in his own head. He did not arise and did not give her a means of escape, setting his palms atop either arm of her chair and trapping her in place.

"Christine," he bid gently. "How can you deny something that feels like this, …as if it was meant to be this way?" But he knew with one look into her guilt-ridden eyes.

"Don't ask me such things please," she miserably begged. "It will only hurt you to hear the answer, and, Erik, please, I don't want to hurt you anymore."

"You've already done that and far worse," he suddenly snapped, looming before her. "You are taking my heart in your hand and squeezing it, crushing it until it will finally give way and explode into a million shards of fractured glass."

Tears were falling again, glistening off of the lights as she whimpered, "Don't, Erik, please…. I'm sorry…."

"It doesn't have to be this way," he continued, daring to reach out and brush her falling tears away with his fingertips. "Loving each other doesn't have to always cause us such pain."

Christine was holding his eye with her tearful, somber gaze as she whispered solemnly, "We can never love each other…. It can never be…." With those grim words, she easily broke his weakened hold and fled from him, hurrying out of the room and away from his presence on the verge of a sob that she would not let him see.

Erik fell back onto his knees, staring with wounded eyes after her. He could still feel the invisible imprint left from her kiss as if he had been permanently branded by that all too brief contact, and on the wings of the memory was the foreign sense of bliss it had brought with its inception, now bittersweet in its recollection. It hardly seemed fair that a man such as he who had only known a lifetime of torment should finally know happiness, to have its sustenance so near to his grasp in feelings that were requited and shared, and then be refused its ecstasy just as quickly. He had tasted his future on his lips in a kiss, and now he would watch another man usurp his dream and steal it away.

The rest of the day was spent with much uneasiness and stumbling words. Hardly keen on the idea of another afternoon in bed, Erik instead decided to rest in the living room on the couch where he could sit more comfortably and actually get some work accomplished, organizing a pile of what remained of his music and scores. Pages had been scattered haphazardly everywhere in his music room, which now were in need of sorting. Christine, who was determined to busy herself with the cleaning if only to keep her mind and body occupied, brought him stacks of the papers she collected and furtively watched with amazement as he formed piles, able to know the identity and composer of each one even without title as confirmation. Through this ongoing and lengthy process, they barely spoke to one another, their chosen avoidance upheld by the fact that she kept bustling between rooms, never staying long enough for him to potentially begin any sort of conversation for fear of what words would be attached.

In the late afternoon, when Raoul returned, he immediately noticed the changed air of tension in the house. Confusion edged on worry as he peered into the living room to find the phantom devil asleep on the couch. There was a slight relief to that; at least, it meant that the monster had not abducted Christine and stolen her away with the Vicomte foolishly assuming that he was too weak to dare attempt any such stunt and ignorantly inviting such a fate unto himself. Yet…something had happened; Raoul could feel it even if he couldn't name it, and he knew a certain unjustifiable terror he wasn't sure he wanted an answer for.

A bit more urgent in his endeavors, the Vicomte sought out Christine, hurrying from room to room until he finally found her in the kitchen preparing supper.

"Oh, Raoul," she called, starting with surprise when she saw him. "I didn't know you were back."

"Yes," the Vicomte replied with the hint of suspicion that he couldn't keep from his tone. Slowly wandering alongside her, he studied her every detail with a critical intensity, seeking an answer for himself. "And…was everything all right while I was gone?"

"Of course," she replied automatically, attempting to keep her eyes focused on her task. "Is your mother well? Was she upset that you were gone without notice?"

Upset didn't begin to describe the mood of his mother. He had spent an afternoon under her sharp scolding of proper etiquette, having to defend Christine's reputation as his mother insisted that proper unwed ladies did not go off for nights with gentlemen, that Christine could be nothing more than a gold-digging whore to do so…. And Raoul had no intention of letting Christine know any of that.

"No, not upset at all," he replied with a forced smile. These ridiculous, fake smiles were disconcertingly becoming all too common as of late. "How is your patient doing?"

Christine furtively met his glance out of the corner of her eye, hesitant as she replied, "Oh, much better, I believe. He's asleep at the moment. I had to insist that he put his music aside and take a rest so that he doesn't push himself back to illness. He can be very stubborn, which is a sure sign that he is on the mend."

Raoul was still scrutinizing her, and as she tried to turn away again, he caught her by her upper arms and made her face him. He could tell that she had been crying, and yet he was equally certain that if he said so, she would adamantly deny it. "You are working too hard, darling; _you_ will be the one pushed to illness. I'm sure that you've spent the entire day cooking and cleaning in this damp, cold house so far from sunlight and fresh air. It is hardly natural to spend so much time in this God-forsaken place."

In the back of her mind, she was considering all of those months before when she would have spent days at length in this house with Erik, sometimes three or four at a time without a peek of natural light. Oddly enough, she had never considered it a loss then. "I guess you can grow accustomed."

"Oh, but I most certainly don't want you to become accustomed," Raoul insisted. "You belong in the sunlight. Listen to me, darling. I know that I have been pushing for our departure from this place nearly since our arrival, but as you said yourself, he _is_ doing better. I should say that he will likely be able to do everything he used to within a few days. And you have certainly fulfilled any obligation you felt to save and care for him."

Christine shook her head, pushing, "What are you saying, Raoul?"

He only had a moment to consider that he had seen something he couldn't bear to acknowledge in her eyes, but he abruptly shrugged it off and answered, "I want us to leave tomorrow morning for London."

"We already discussed this, and I told you that it isn't possible at the moment."

With a slight hesitation and a bit of reluctance, he told her, "I am not asking anymore. We _are_ leaving tomorrow."

She was taken aback, recoiling away from his touch. "What?"

"I don't want to upset you," he tried to justify, holding up his hands defenselessly as if to prove that he had no weapon to force her compliance. "I feel that I have been quite patient and understanding through this terrible ordeal, as much as I could be under the circumstances. I am quite confident that your friend no longer requires our assistance and can recover completely on his own. Call me selfish, if you will, but I am ready to have you all to myself and start our life together. And I will not permit an argument from you on this subject, lest I remind you that I have done everything you've wanted thus far. Now it's your turn to compromise. I gave you two days, two days to save a murderer. I think that is sufficient, don't you?"

Christine did not answer, lowering her eyes with a sudden terror that the Vicomte would see too many of her secrets. Though there could be no other outcome in the end, she had not considered that her time with Erik would be so brief. Over before it had truly begun; was that the fate they would always be doomed to suffer?

"Christine," Raoul continued gently, capturing her hands in his. "Darling, I love you. I want only happy times and a bright future for us far away from the darkness and horror of this place. I cannot bear to consider you dwelling on this monster and what you believe that you owe to him. He is taking advantage of your compassionate nature to keep you here in this pit of hell with him."

"How quickly you forget that he willingly let me go the last time," she retorted softly.

"True, but it's quite likely that after all of this, he has had a change of heart and is regretting that decision. You _did_ return to save his life; that has to confuse him as to your intentions."

She wondered if he had any idea how near to the truth he was, but simply stated again, "Raoul, I can't leave him yet."

"You saved his life. You are not obligated to live out your days being his maid and housekeeper as well, …or to be his bride if that's what he's planning."

"He's not planning _anything_," she snapped.

"Even if he isn't, it's time we took our leave. I am not going to drag you out of here kicking and screaming. If you love me and appreciate the sacrifices I've made for you, you'll come with me willingly."

Irritation became guilt that twisted her heart; she guessed that was his aim, and even though she knew he would vividly see the disappointment brimming over in her blue eyes, she answered steadily, "All right, Raoul. Tomorrow morning, we'll leave for London."


	6. Chapter 6

Per Christine's request, Raoul did not tell Erik of their plans, and as their silent dinner ended and Erik retired to his room for the night, she still had not been able to find the words that would fully destroy his heart.

Raoul was unfolding a large blanket and readying the couch for what he knew would be another night of fitful sleep, and as he noticed Christine staring silently down the hall where Erik had gone, he suddenly caught her arm to draw her attention and demanded apathetically, "Did you tell him?"

She somberly shook her head. "No, not yet."

Shrugging idly, he decided, "It's likely better to wait till tomorrow anyway in case he should decide to try something while we're vulnerable and asleep tonight." When he saw how his accusations bothered Christine, he quickly smiled at her and added, "I am anticipating our trip tomorrow very much. It will be torture every moment left that we must endure until we are on that boat. I am going to give you the most wonderful life, Christine, beyond anything you can imagine."

She had the distinct feeling that the statement was solely one more attempt to recapture her dwindling affections, but she only replied with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, "I'm sure you will. …Goodnight, Raoul."

"Goodnight." As he leaned in close to kiss her, she quickly turned her head so that he only managed to find her cheek, and before he could make another attempt, she hurried to her room and locked herself in.

Christine took her time, bathing and drawing on her nightdress, impatient for seconds to pass more quickly as her mind was already traveling someplace else and her body was eager to be there as well. Plopping down before her vanity mirror, she collected her damp hair over her shoulder, tying it in a long, loose tail of curls and wondering fanatically if it was too soon to leave her room. Was Raoul still awake to hear her if she dared? Why did every minute suddenly seem like a dozen or more?

Finally, she could keep herself still no longer, and on bare feet, she tiptoed out of her room and across the hallway, slowly turning the knob to Erik's room and opening it with that telltale soft creak that made her cringe.

Erik saw her enter the room from where he sat beneath his bed covers, and he abruptly shoved aside the book he had been reading. In a way, he had been awaiting her arrival.

"Oh good, I didn't wake you," she said as she met his expectant eyes with a hesitant smile.

"No," he replied, and she cringed at the stiffness to his tone. "What are you doing here? I already managed to bathe and put myself to bed on my own, so I daresay your help isn't needed any longer." He wanted to regret his sharpness when he saw the hurt arise on her face, but he remained seemingly aloof to her regard.

"I…I wanted to check on you-"

"No," he interrupted. "You came to say goodbye, and perhaps to lessen your guilt. Don' t worry, Christine. You needn't feel any guilt at all for leaving, for as you can see, I am quite capable to manage myself well enough. I hope that eases your conscience so that you can happily go on with your life."

Tentatively slow in every step, Christine approached his bed and climbed atop the mattress, sitting back on her knees across from him. "How did you know?"

"I didn't know for certain until now. The Vicomte's strangely cordial and almost warm demeanor at the dinner table made me speculate, …and as it appears, I was correct…." He could no longer look at her blue eyes, lowering his stare to his fisting hands atop the blankets. "I wasn't entirely certain that you would tell me that you were leaving."

"Why do you say that?"

"Goodbye is a difficult thing…. For us, it would be nearly impossible. I doubt words exist for it. That's why the last time I chose to avoid goodbyes altogether."

Christine was studying his tattered face, glimpsing what she knew was only a fraction of the true extent of the pain he was suffering as she insisted, "Or maybe it was because you knew that we'd see each other again, …in the back of your mind, …an unindulged thought. …You knew that our story wasn't finished."

"And is it now? Is our story closing its final chapter?" As Erik regarded her again, for the first time, he saw the odd, beaming light in her eyes. "Yes, …I guess it is. You are happy; I can see it, …happy to be leaving me and moving on with your life with the Vicomte…."

"No!" she immediately interjected. "It isn't that!"

"Isn't it? Then why with a future before us that I can only call bleak do your eyes gleam with happiness?"

Christine shifted on her knees, sitting up taller as she began to speak with hands that were incessantly wringing in front of her. "Raoul is forcing me to leave in the morning; he's determined to make me the victim of such an exorbitant amount of guilt that I must go with him willingly. He said that any obligation I felt to you was fulfilled, that I no longer owed you anything and that you were just using my compassion to keep me here."

Erik was shaking his head under the abrupt rush of his temper as he spat, "Yes, that sounds like exactly what the Vicomte would insist reality to be."

"Precisely!" she agreed with a sudden smile in the face of his flashing rage. "Erik, Raoul is going to take me away tomorrow, and I don't want to leave."

Even as elation teased the back of his tongue, Erik forced himself to remain skeptical and reserved, commanding dubiously, "Explain what you mean before I misunderstand you again."

Nodding as if to encourage his hesitant thoughts, she excitedly went on. "I have spent all day pondering the situation in my head, driven half to insanity by it, and I realized that I felt no obligation to you. It's the Vicomte I feel obligated to, as if I owe him me, myself and my future, and all because I can never care for him in the way that he wants me to. And that isn't fair!"

"Earlier in the day, you were ready to fetter yourself to him for the rest of your life under the pretext of a vow. It hardly seemed fair then either."

"No, it wasn't, not to any of us," she agreed. "Even to Raoul. I am lying to all of us, and why? Because I feel I owe Raoul the love I _should_ feel for him, the love he _believes_ I _do_ feel for him. …And more than that even. He is my childhood friend; he knew me in the time that I was a happy little girl, and that little girl adored him; the little girl, mind you, not the woman she grew to be…. If I leave with Raoul tomorrow, if I marry him, I would be condemning both of us to a life of lies and pain."

Erik's brows arched inquiringly as he hesitantly stammered, "And…what do you intend to do about that then?"

"I intend to follow my heart," she softly answered with a tentative grin that tugged the corners of her lips upward, "and what it is that I want."

"Oh?" he probed impatiently. "And what is it that you want, Christine?"

"Need you even ask that?"

"Yes, lest I misinterpret."

Her expression was uncertain and timid with a bit of anticipation at its edges as she slowly scooted nearer and nearer until she was kneeling right in front of him. "Your heart and your soul…, but you said that they were already mine."

Erik slowly lifted his bruised body to his knees, mimicking her pose as he faced her. "They always have been since before I even knew you, before I was ever born into this cruel world. You need but want them, and they are yours."

"I want them," she breathed, her gaze a mirror of the growing intensity in his. "And far more as well."

Even as Erik yearned to touch her, he fisted his hands before himself, waiting feverishly and pushed, "Such as?"

She pondered to herself a moment, but it was clear that she already had something definite in mind. "I want you to marry me."

"What?"

Christine was nodding eagerly, her blue eyes wide and naively determined. "Yes, …now, as you intended that last night, …a vow between you and I that no one could destroy or take away."

Unable to restrain himself any longer, he caught her face between his hands the same way he had earlier in the day in the last time he had dared touch her. But this time it was different; there were no tears or desolate expressions; there was only hope. "Do you know what you are asking of me?"

But she only smiled brighter. "A happy ending."

Oh, how he wanted to believe! But he could not hold back the suspicions plaguing a mind that was only accustomed to rejection and denial. "Is this your way of saying goodbye then, Christine? To give me the fantasy and let us live it out for a few hours before you leave with the Vicomte and fulfill your 'obligation' to him on the morrow?"

Her hands came toward him then to cup his face as well, marveling over scars she had once condemned and bruises that were slowly but surely healing themselves. "You doubt me so quickly, _mon ange_. You're so certain that I am only attempting to pacify both of our hearts for the briefest moment before I break them all over again."

"Aren't you? Do you realize that marrying me even in such an unconventional manner means that you are my wife forever, that you are bound to me for all eternity?"

"Eternity hardly seems long enough to make up for all of the time we've spent pushing each other away." When she saw his impatience for her answer flickering desperately in his mismatched eyes, she laughed brightly and replied, "Erik, I'm not going to leave you. The very idea of being bound to you as your wife thrills me more than you could ever know. It's all that I want."

"I…I don't know if I can believe you."

Continuing to beam with brilliance, Christine revealed in the softest whisper, "I love you, Erik."

Everything around him stilled in that moment as he seemed to hear her repeating those words over and over in a loop in his mind. As they very timidly settled in as truth, he suddenly gathered her into his arms, dragging her close as they still knelt upon the mattress. She went into his embrace eagerly, wrapping her own arms around him and laying her cheek against his shoulder. Everything within her was shouting that this was where she belonged, and for the first time, she was listening.

"I love you," he was whispering fervently against her ear. "I love you. I love you so much, _mon amour_." Reluctant in any movement that would cause even an inkling of space between their bodies, he drew back mere inches to meet her blue gaze, catching both of her hands in his and tightly clasping them between their hearts. "Then make a vow to me right now, this moment, and be mine forever." When she eagerly nodded, he continued with earnestness, "Christine, will you vow to be my wife for all of eternity, to bestow on me your heart and your soul and your love for as long as you shall live, to bless my life with your beauty, your laughter, your music, to be everything to me, to guide me to be a better man by your side and teach me the pleasures of a life I only want with you?"

"Yes, Erik," she whispered back. "With all of my heart."

Tears were threatening for a future that he had never believed he would have, but he kept them at bay and made his own vow in a trembling, hushed tone. "And I vow to be your devoted husband, to make you happy with my every breath every moment of every day for the rest of my life, to lavish you with more love than you've ever known, to give you the life you've always dreamed of full of love, joy, laughter, music. I will cherish you, Christine, and I will do my best never to disappoint you, …to be a good man."

"You are a good man, Erik," she replied with sincerity. "You choose only to see the bad, but that's not what I see when I look at you."

"And what is it then that you see? My scars? My face?" he inquired curiously.

She grinned, and the light danced in her eyes. "I see the man I love, the man I've always loved."

Language failed him in such an overwhelming moment, when for the first time under her warm, adoring gaze, he felt worthy of her love, made so by the very things he had spent a lifetime concealing and being ashamed to bear.

Very softly, Erik began to sing to her, binding their vows in the most beautiful way he knew. She immediately recognized his duet, and without hesitation, she eagerly joined her voice to his, shivering as their timbres weaved together in that beautiful melody. It was always only so natural to be singing when they were together, as though the music held even more significance than normal speech.

As Erik continued singing with her, he released her hands and slowly rose from the bed, and she watched him all the while, wrapping her voice around his with each legato line. Barely taking his gaze from hers for even an instant, he walked to his armoire and drew forth an object from one of its drawers. She tried to catch a glimpse of what he had concealed in his fist, but he would not show her until he was once again kneeling across from her. Then as he sang beautiful words of love and devotion, he caught her hand and lifted it, opening his palm to display a lovely diamond ring whose stone glistened and sparkled by the fire's glow. Delicate in his every endeavor, he slipped the ring onto her finger.

Christine was surprised. For though the ring was in all essence fettering her to him for the rest of her life, it felt light and weightless surrounding her finger, not heavy as Raoul's ring had felt when she had worn it on a chain around her neck. Erik's ring was not restraining; it was freeing.

In the final lines of the song, Erik eagerly edged even closer to her until he was only a breath away, and as their voices faded to silence in their last note, he captured her lips in a gentle kiss.

Euphoria coursed through Christine, encouraged by the delicious heat Erik's kiss brought into existence. It bubbled up within her until she finally had to pull her lips from his to laugh aloud with her happiness, and he could only stare at her for a long moment, transfixed and amazed.

"You stare at me so, _mon époux_," she said as her laughter dissipated to an ever-present, unfaltering smile at the sheer delight of calling him her husband. "What are you thinking?"

"That I would die for you. I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love another human being, …and I'm terrified."

"Terrified?" she asked, weaving her arms securely around his neck.

"Happiness has never been kind to me. I fear that if I indulge it, I will cling so tightly to it that I will finally destroy it."

Curling her fingers in the fine hair at the nape of his neck, she patiently explained, "Happiness cannot be kept captive, Erik; I thought surely you'd have realized that by now. It must be set free to come and go as it pleases because life is a combination of happy and sad times. It makes us savour the happy ones a little more when we have them."

Holding her a bit more snugly to himself so that as they were knee to knee and pressed flush together, he tenderly breathed, "My wise and beautiful wife."

Christine's fingers were making pathways over the features of his face, touching those scars as if it was the very first time, trying to learn every texture and indenture. And then the side that was not disfigured and was only marked by healing gashes and bruises that would fade to perfection in time.

Closing his eyes beneath her exploration, Erik concentrated on the sensation of her caresses. Every brush of her fingertips sent a little lick of fire through his body down every limb and out to each extremity. Before her, these sorts of desires had held little interest to him and were frequently ignored and never indulged; he had instead filtered every bit of passion in his body into his music. But having her so near, maintaining such control over them seemed impossible; _she_ held control, only she was far too naïve to ever realize it.

"_Ange_?" she called softly.

"Hmm?"

Christine hesitated, feeling a blush steal over her cheeks, before she timidly asked in a small, trembling voice, "What happens now?"

His eyes opened to regard her as he shook his head and firmly insisted, "I do not expect anything more from you, Christine. I told you before that I never intended for this to be a conventional marriage. It is enough for me that you are my wife." The trepidation and hesitance in her eyes did not lessen despite his assurance, and so he managed a calm smile and gently bid, "Come, _amour_. Lay with me here."

Christine complied, climbing beneath the covers of the bed while Erik took his time to do the same, his every movement less stiff but nonetheless still carrying its own dull pain. When he was at last beside her, he opened his arms, and she automatically curled into his embrace, laying her cheek on his pillow just next to his.

"What are you thinking?" she suddenly asked, encouraged by the continuously amazed expression on his face as it rested so near to hers.

"I am simply overwhelmed. I never thought that I would be laying here with you like this, seeing you looking at me with such love in your eyes…. It feels like an illusion, and yet you feel so real."

"I _am_ real," she confirmed, her fingers idly stroking his brow.

"And someday I will know that with equaled confidence. Someday I will be able to accept that you are not going to leave, that you have _willingly_ chosen to be my wife and be at my side forever. Until then, I fear I will be continually surprised by every moment in your presence." Closing the miniscule distance between them, he pressed a feather-light kiss to her lips. "Sleep, Christine, here in my arms, my beautiful angel who has saved not only my life but also my soul."

"Erik?" she called again, her voice trembling as her eyes concentrated on the soothing motion of her hand as it still skimmed idly across his brow. "You said that you expect nothing more from me than this."

"Yes," he replied, trailing his own fingers down the length of her cheek and marveling over the texture of her skin. "So you needn't be afraid. I won't cause you to fear me and loathe me again. I only ever want you to look at me and feel for me as you do now."

"And that will be enough for you?" she demanded softly. "After you yourself have written of such passion in your music?"

"Sharing a life with you is _more_ than enough for me, more than I ever dreamed I could have…. That fantasy we spoke of last night, making a real home together…. Christine, that is some sort of heaven I don't deserve…. For the first time in my life, I feel happy, …like I understand what life is truly supposed to be after so long of avoiding its every trapping. Anything beyond that pales in comparison."

Christine smiled at his heartfelt words, but in the back of her mind was her lingering curiosity, once again determined to torment her. She wished that she bore the strength to silence it and keep it at bay, but it mimicked the muttering of her subconscious and asked intently for what he seemed hesitant to give, a conventional marriage with every detail and complication it could entail.

"Christine, is something wrong?" Erik nervously asked at her silent meditation.

Desperate to hide her heavy thoughts, she just shook her head with a sweet smile curving her lips and replied, "I am just happy…and tired."

"Then close your eyes, _mon amour_," he breathed, brushing his lips over her brow. "Sleep."

"I love you," she replied even as she did as he commanded, cuddling closer to the delicious warmth of his body.

"And I love you." As he watched sleep begin to steal over her, he continued to caress her cheek with a delicate touch, wondering how he could have found such fortune after a lifetime of nothing but pain. And as he himself began to succumb to sleep's hold, he vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to keep it.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, the initial elation Christine knew upon awaking in Erik's arms rapidly transformed to dread at what she knew must come next. Reluctantly, she climbed out of his bed with a tender grazing of her lips across his scarred cheek, ever careful not to disturb him as he slept on, and crept back to her own room to ready herself for the day.

A little later, clothed in mint green with half of her thick curls tied back in a ribbon at the crown of her head, she returned to Erik's room with furtive glances down the hall to the deceptively quiet living room.

"Good morning," Erik greeted her with a hesitant smile as he stood at the foot of his bed, buttoning the cuffs of a fresh dress shirt and watching her quickly close herself inside with him.

"Good morning. You look well." She was equally as tentative, lingering a modest distance away and only surveying him with longing yet apprehensive eyes.

"Look, yes," he replied before demonstrating a few steps that still bore a decisive limp that stole his usual grace. "And yet I can't complain; it does get easier every day. Soon I won't even feel the pain anymore…, at least not the physical pain anyway." Suddenly averting his anxious eyes away from her, he reached for his jacket and began to draw it on if only to occupy his shaking hands as he revealed, "I am still trying to decide if last night was only a dream or perhaps some sort of momentary lapse of insanity induced by the damp catacomb air." Casting her only a furtive glance and nothing more, he sadly breathed, "You look so beautiful…. Have you come to wish good morning to your husband or goodbye to your patient?"

Without a reply to his terrified question, Christine timidly smiled and closed the remaining distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning upward enough to press a kiss to his lips.

"Good morning, _mon époux_," she declared in the slight gap of air between longing mouths.

"Then it wasn't a dream," he breathed with a flash of relief in his eyes, immediately circling her in his arms.

"Not a dream," she confirmed adamantly.

Shaking his head incredulously as his eyes made frantic paths over her features as he had been yearning to do since her arrival, he confided, "I was afraid. You were so somber when you came in. I feared that you were regretting your decision."

"I have no regrets…. I am only loath to tell Raoul that I am not going with him. I don't want to hurt anybody, Erik."

"I know." He lightly caressed her cheek with fingertips that still bore a blatant quivering. "But you must. One of us had to be hurt either way. Better that it is not under the guise of a lie…. Besides, if you don't break the Vicomte's heart, then that would mean that you want me to share you with him, and I don't share what is mine. Playing nicely with others was never my strong point." To his delight, his teasing banter did bring the smile he was after to her lips. "Ah, I know what you're doing; you're envisioning me and the Vicomte taking turns in your presence and all because you did not have the heart to cut him free. That is a humorous scenario to be sure, and, sad to say, both of us are so eager for your love that we would likely agree to anything you wanted even just to have half a moment with you…till I grew tired of such a game and threw the Vicomte out on his ear. You should know better than anyone that patience is not one of my strong points."

A soft laugh escaped her as her agreement. "All right. You do pose a valid argument, and though I am dreading it, I will face the Vicomte. …But you will be there with me, won't you?"

Erik lovingly laid a shy kiss to the tip of her nose. "Of course. I have little doubt that the Vicomte would try to drag you out of here by the hair like a barbaric caveman if I don't."

"I'm not so sure that you're wrong," she replied, reluctantly leaving Erik's embrace. How she wished with all of her heart that it was over already!

A few minutes later, shaking in spite of her attempted bravado, Christine walked into the living room, cringing in the instant she met Raoul's expectant grin, while Erik watched them carefully and lingered back in the doorway like a looming shadow. Despite his injuries, he felt confident that should the need arise, he could overpower the Vicomte; with Christine and their future at stake, he would fight to his death.

"Christine," Raoul called, fixing his focus solely on her. "Are you ready to leave? Have you packed anything you need to take with you?"

"No, I-"

"Well, hurry along, darling," he hastily interrupted. "I thought we could stop for breakfast at a café before we have to meet the boat. We should have plenty of time."

"Raoul." Her tone was sharper and more convicted this time, and he quieted to stare at her curiously. "I am not leaving."

"What?" the Vicomte demanded, the edge of anger tinting his voice. "What do you mean? We already discussed and decided this yesterday."

"I'm sorry, Raoul. I don't want to hurt you; truly, I don't. But…this is where I belong; it's where I've always belonged."

"_What_ are you saying?" Raoul's entire frame had grown stiff with a threatening rage that was only one answer away from being indulged.

And then she gave it. "I love Erik," she softly replied, her voice trembling beyond any sought after strength. "I'm sorry, Raoul, but I can't leave him and marry you. It would be a lie…. I am meant to be with him."

"Meant to be with him?" he muttered before he grabbed her by her arms with eyes that were suddenly smoldering, gripping with forcefully fisted hands. "What has he done to you? Did he put a spell on you and steal your free will? …Or are you doing this for me? Did he threaten my life again and put another ridiculous ultimatum before you?"

"No, Raoul, of course not," she practically shouted back, staring unflinching into his desperate eyes. "Don't be ridiculous! I made this choice willingly just as I did the other night when I chose him."

"You chose him to save me."

Christine shook her head somberly and insisted, "No, …I chose him because I love him. But you know that already; you've known it all along, which is why you didn't want me to go back to him that night."

"And yet you forget that it was _I_ that brought you here, Christine. _I_ brought you back to this place and to him because I love you so much that I couldn't deny you," he insisted.

"No, you brought me here because you thought he was already dead. You never believed me when I told you that he was alive; if you did, you never would have conceded because you would have been afraid that I would choose Erik again and again."

Raoul was struck momentarily speechless by her accusations, gaping at her as if she had lost her mind. Quaking all over with the power of his growing anger, he suddenly shook her hard in his grasp, shouting, "What has he done to you? That murdering freak! He's trying to steal you away from me!"

Erik had been silently watching the scene play out, willing to be patient for Christine's sake even as rage welled in his chest so tightly that his hands clenched in deadly fists at his sides, but there was only so much he could withstand to allow without consequence. Finally letting his jealousy take control, he snapped, "Will you kindly take your hands off of my wife?"

Raoul was startled just enough to loosen his hold, and Christine did not hesitate to break free and scurry to Erik's side, clasping onto his arm with both of her hands.

"Your _wife_?" Raoul spat dubiously, shaking his head. "You are delusional in your madness, Monsieur. She is promised to me; she would never marry you."

"She already has," Erik stated plainly, arrogantly pleased beyond words to burst the Vicomte's pretty bubble. "She is my wife now and forever, and she made that choice willingly with her heart."

"Christine?" Raoul questioned, but then his eyes fell upon the sparkling diamond shining like a beacon around her finger as it curled in Erik's jacket sleeve. His anger fell victim and succumbed to his hurt as he hissed, "How could you do it?"

"I told you," she solemnly answered. "I love him, Raoul."

Raoul shook his head, unwilling to hide his pain from her view. "The same way you said you loved me…, but then again I am no disfigured murderer."

"Please don't," Christine warned. "I did love you, Raoul; I always will, as my dearest friend. The way I love Erik isn't the same."

"How could it be? I haven't killed people." His bitter words hinted at a malice that shimmered with its threat in the air.

Christine could feel Erik grow rigidly tensed under her hold, and she gently squeezed his arm as she continued calmly, "I don't think you'll ever understand, Raoul. I am sorry to hurt you, but I couldn't lie to you anymore."

"I wasn't aware it was a lie," the Vicomte said sadly. "I did everything for you. And even if I did have an inkling of a thought that you could care for this monster, I was certain that you had sense enough not to indulge it…. I see I was wrong. God help you, Christine, for the life you've condemned yourself to live."

With that, the Vicomte de Chagny stormed past them and left the house, slamming the door in his wake. Erik and Christine both remained frozen in place in the living room doorway, listening to the sounds of the boat being dragged across the shore and finally the pole splashing into the water.

Only when the sounds diminished did Erik turn to face her with an expression that was lined in melancholy and clearly carved along his unmasked face. "I'm sorry, Christine. I know that was quite unpleasant for you to have to endure."

Attempting to feign apathy, she insisted half to herself, "But it had to be done, as you said. Someone had to be hurt in the end."

Erik's eyes drifted to the closed front door, and he stated as if he was reading the unspoken considerations in her mind. "You don't believe he has given up entirely."

She nodded a solemn confirmation. "I think he will return with the _gendarme_ to arrest you. Now that he need not play along for my sake and protect you, he will be after some sort of revenge. Raoul does not like to be made a fool of, nor does he like losing what was once his."

"One more thing we have in common," Erik reluctantly admitted.

Cupping his cheek suddenly in her palm, she argued, "Except you were once unselfish enough to let me go and to put my happiness before yours. Raoul could never do that unless he had something to gain from it."

Catching her waist in his hands, Erik told her, "You know I must go, don't you? I have to make sure my traps and alarms are set. We are not safe here if I don't."

"And are you truly strong enough to be wandering the catacombs to do that?"

He could not contain a smile. How strange it was to have someone to worry over him! Strange yet not unwelcome. "We will find out, won't we? When I return, we will discuss how long we intend to remain within these walls; the sooner we leave this place, the better. I think it is high time that we put the legend of the Opera Ghost to rest and bury the notorious Phantom in the bowels of hell where he belongs."

"The fates of the Opera Ghost and the Phantom are quite bleak. I certainly hope that Erik's is more promising."

She was teasing him again, and he delighted in it, relishing the lightness after all of the serious tones and colors of his life before her. "Oh yes," he replied with a smile. "Erik's future is brilliant and blissful now that he has the woman he adores by his side."

"I love you," she called and watched as he reluctantly released her with a simple kiss brushed across her temple and one long look back as he left the house.

It took longer than he had anticipated to wander the catacombs and check the condition of every hidden trap and alarm. A good part of that was due to the lingering weakness of his body. He was loath to admit it, but he was beginning to realize with more and more conviction that he would likely never fully recover his prior strength after the brutality of this assault. He would probably always stumble a little when he walked, no longer the graceful angel he had once been, and he had to remind himself that he was no longer a young man, able to heal quickly and completely from similarly brutal attacks. It was just one more indication of the passing of time.

Erik was poling the boat that Raoul had used back to the house. If the Vicomte did return, he could take his chances swimming the lake, and he would likely find himself victim to one of the many traps in its black, still depths and possibly a watery grave, and Erik would know no remorse for it.

As the boat came into view of the house, his vengeful fantasies evaporated. What a sight to greet him! A warm glow filtered out from the lit hearths within, streaming into the dark catacombs, inviting him to enter. He could smell the delicious aromas of supper permeating the air, making his stomach rumble in response with an insistence that it had been hours since he had last eaten. And then like the songs of the very first birds to return in springtime, the brilliant sound of Christine humming as she worked within the house poured out to echo off of the cave walls. Ah, heaven! For the first time in his life, he knew the blissful peace of returning home.

Erik moved faster, urged on by the eagerness to join the scene. He dragged the boat ashore and concealed it out of view, ready for a final departure that couldn't come soon enough as far as he was concerned, and then with a few staggering steps in an otherwise gliding path, he entered his home and hurried to find his wife.

"Christine," he called with a smile erupting on his lips.

"In the kitchen."

He did not pause a moment, quickening his pace until he arrived in the doorway and had her in his view. In a tender voice, he breathed her name once again, "Christine."

Without pause, she immediately rushed to his side and hugged herself to him tightly. "I was beginning to worry. You've been gone a long time." Reluctantly drawing out of his embrace again, she scurried to the cupboard to find a plate, insisting, "You must be famished. Go and sit, and I will bring you something to eat."

Erik hesitated; he was preoccupied watching her move. It astounded him how easily and comfortably she had taken over the role of lady of the house…; to him, it was simply further proof that this was always meant to be.

A few minutes later, they were seated in the dining room across a damaged table as he savoured the delicious meal she had prepared. Between bites, he told her, "You are quite an excellent cook. I had no idea."

Christine grinned at his compliment, but her mind was preoccupied with weighty thoughts. Twisting her teacup idly in her hands, she finally found the strength to put voice to them and softly asked, "Are we safe here, Erik?"

He shrugged and waited until he swallowed to answer, "I think so. We have alarms to warn us should someone dare intrude into the catacombs and traps to hopefully change their minds and convince them to go back. But these are only temporary solutions. We cannot remain here. As I've told you before, we can go anyplace you like. Just name it. The world is laid before you, _amour_. I will take you anyplace you wish, and we can start a new life together."

Staring fixedly at her teacup, she considered for a long minute. "I had never really thought about leaving Paris, but we can't stay here. Too many people know our story. I think our best option is to travel to America."

"America?" Erik did not seem displeased with the idea as he turned it over and over again in his mind.

"It's quite a distance away," she continued quickly, "but it is entirely possible that we could have a decently normal life there."

"Normal," he repeated, testing the word in his mouth. "I've never been acquainted with that concept. It might be refreshing for a change."

"And safe," she added. "For both of us…and our children."

Erik had been about to sip his tea, and her words nearly made him drop the porcelain cup back onto the table in a loud clamor as he managed to stutter, "Children?"

Purposely not meeting his eye, she continued to toy with her own cup. It had perhaps been a bit much to slip the idea into the conversation as simply as she had, but it was a subject that she felt deserved discussion. Attempting to tilt her head nonchalantly, she only breathed, "Someday."

Erik sat back in his chair, brow furrowed with pronounced lines as he stammered as if it was the most absurd of concepts, "And you mean that you want to have _my_ children?"

Meeting his perplexed gaze, she lightly inquired, "Why not?"

Dear Lord, she seemed as if such information was inconsequential, and he inwardly cursed her naïveté. "I told you from the beginning that I had no intention for this to be a conventional marriage with the details attached to such an arrangement. Children were one of those details."

"I assumed as much, but I thought that maybe one day when we are someplace safe and you can see the unthreatened life that they would be able have, you might change your mind-"

"No, no," he interrupted with an abrupt shaking of his head, "How could you even suggest it?"

"But why not?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He had not intended to snap at her, but he could not keep his temper from flaring. "There is the chance that a child created by you and I would be born looking as I do, and I will _not_ condemn any child to that life." Without another word on the subject, he abruptly rose from the table and fled her presence.

Christine allowed him to go without protest, staring sadly after him.

Unrushed in her tasks, she cleared the table and straightened the kitchen, giving him plenty of time to himself before she dared to make an approach, unsure what frame of mind she would find him lost in. But finally unable to remain patiently alone any longer, she approached his bedroom door and knocked softly before entering, timid despite her resolve.

"Erik?" she called gently as her eyes fell upon his shape. He was sitting at the edge of his bed and in his hands holding every bit of his attention was a tiny mask…, the size for a child.

Christine crept closer and closer with hesitant, whispered steps, and when she arrived before him, she lowered herself to her knees on the floor at his feet. She wanted to touch him, to smooth the lines of pain creasing his tattered face, but she dared not, keeping her hands purposely folded tight in her skirts in her lap.

Erik did not look up at her or acknowledge her presence as he spoke. "My mother gave me this mask for my second birthday. I was only ever allowed in her presence if my face was hidden from her view. I was supposed to be her cherished son, but instead I was her greatest disappointment."

With a swelling of compassion in her chest, Christine replied softly, "I am certain that she spent the rest of her life regretting the fact that she never knew her son, that she never got to see the brilliant man he became." Tentative, she finally pried her urgent fingers free and extended one tremulous hand toward him until it covered his atop the tiny mask. "Any child born to us would be a blessing, whether perfect or bearing scars; it doesn't matter. Our child would be loved."

Erik lifted his mismatched eyes to hers. "I know that. I don't doubt that you would love our child regardless. It is the world that would only ever be cruel."

"Perhaps. I have no promises from a world that I have found such disappointment in, but we will teach our children tolerance and acceptance. And perhaps they will be the ones to change it; they would definitely have the potential." Christine's eyes bore into his as she insisted without waver, "Children are a product of love, Erik; they are always worth any chance taken."

Hastily putting the miniature mask aside, Erik captured her face, framing it between his palms. "It seems you have thought all of this out."

"In extensive detail," she proudly admitted. "Erik, I want a real marriage with you. You said you would never ask more of me than this, but I want more…, if you are willing, of course."

"Christine." Carefully lowering himself to the floor across from her, Erik drew her to him in a necessary embrace, clinging to her with desperate arms that would never release her again.

Christine's body was humming with life as she arched ever nearer to him until no space was allowed to exist between them. As his misshapen mouth found hers, his lips moving so gently, the heat came with a violent suddenness that made her shudder, streaming like lava through her limbs and then settling with a dull ache at her center.

Erik eagerly slid his tongue between her soft, parted lips to taste her; it was still so new, a kiss, a wife, the woman he loved eager and wanting him in return, and then such desire, so poignant and so overcoming, screaming for satisfaction. For too long, he had forced it at bay, and now to experience the true extent of its power, he felt reality hazing away at its corners until the desire was all that lived and breathed.

Pulling his lips from hers, he continued to lay light kisses across her jaw until he could nuzzle the sensitive flesh just below her ear as she squirmed and mewed with delight against him. Her hand slipped into his hair, grasping at the fine locks with fingers that curled fitfully to bear the growing tension in her body.

"Don't stop," she begged desperately as his lips made a slow, fervent path down her throat. "Please, Erik, don't ever stop."

Merely the frantic urgency in her tone brought a swelling wave of need that assaulted his willing body, leaving him dizzy in its wake. He allowed just the tip of his tongue to emerge from his lips and teasingly lick at the crease of her neck, and the small cry she gave only encouraged him onward. Perhaps if her soft body wasn't squirming so restlessly against his, if she wasn't trying so frenziedly to get ever closer to him as if she couldn't get close enough, if her skin wasn't so warm and flushed, if she wasn't making sounds of pleasure that were as beautiful as music to his ears, perhaps then he would have still harbored enough of his rational mind to put an end to this…. Oh Lord, how he _didn't_ _want_ to put an end to this!

Erik's hands with his long fingers splayed wide as they made a graceful path from her shoulders over the swells of her breasts and out to the curve of her hips, clasping there to wrench her lower body tighter to his, knowing that even through the layers of her skirts, she would feel the hardness of him and the potent effect she was having on him.

It was as if she was intoxicated on desire's every stirring; at the same time as she felt weightless, strangely enough, the sensations she knew were so heavy that they burdened her with their vastness, making her long for their release. Every inch of her flesh was burning and tingling, making her clothing suddenly restricting and cumbersome upon her skin, and as she felt the male hardness of Erik's desire, she longed with every fiber of herself to be rid of their manmade barriers and feel it against her bare body.

"Erik," she whimpered, begging for more in that one beautiful word.

His hands drifted into her mass of silken curls, entangling as he delicately drew her back with a tug on the locks that forced her to meet his fiery gaze. "You feel it, don't you?" he hoarsely demanded. "What you have the power to do to me. No one has ever made me feel this way or ever will again. It is for you, Christine; it has only ever been for you."

Very gentle in his every endeavor, he captured one of her hands, his grip loose and unbinding and giving her the unspoken option to pull away that she never took. He brought her willing hand between their kneeling bodies to press it against the hardness of him. As her breath caught in her throat with a mixture of desire amidst avid curiosity, he gently guided her hand along his length in a slow motion as she once again found herself wishing to rid him of the barrier his clothes posed.

Erik could feel the heat of her flesh, searing that most sensitive part of him and yet not at all unwanted in its every burn. His voice was laden with the stuttering of disjunctive thoughts within the cloud of desire as he murmured, "I burn for you…. Oh, how I want you!" With an overwhelming reluctance, he drew her hand away from his aching body and kept it captive in his own as he abruptly warned, "Say the word, and we will stop this now. This is not a wifely duty that you must perform; do not think that you have an obligation to satisfy these desires."

She was holding his eye adamantly, stifling innocence as she demanded, "And have you not considered that perhaps I burn for you as well? …That I am…aching for you and the passion I know every time you touch me? I long to be yours in every way, _ange_."

It wasn't only the words, but the look in her fixed gaze, the love that was so strong that it was already unconditional. Without a word, he slowly rose to his feet, drawing her to stand with him, and releasing her hand, he walked around her and sought the clasps of her gown.

It was a real test of his patience to work those intricate clasps, but finally, one by one, they yielded to his efforts and he pushed the gown from her shoulders to slip soundlessly to the floor. One garment gone, then another and another as he tenderly undressed her, pausing with each inch of flawless skin he uncovered to bestow a long caress from trembling fingers.

Christine had believed that she would be nervous and apprehensive when at last she was bared to his eyes, but as her final layers were discarded, all that she knew was a sense of desire, of necessity, …of destiny.

Erik took a step away and let his eyes wander the length of her in intent observation, softly telling her, "It is only fair that I may look upon you. You have done the same to me."

She blushed to a shade of pink with the memory of her overt examination of his naked body and softly agreed, "Fair indeed," as she lowered her eyes with sudden timidity.

"No," he protested, reaching out to tilt her face up again with a thumb beneath her chin. "No, I want you to look at me as I look at you. I want you to see how beautiful you are to me and how simply looking at you makes me ache so deeply for you."

Blushing uncontrollably still, Christine complied and watched his every expression unfold as his eyes daringly left hers and made a languid path down her bare form. It was as if she could see the pleasure and the desire with every wave as it assaulted him as he kept his emotions blatant and vivid on his face.

"I never could have imagined such beauty," he was hoarsely breathing as he slowly walked around her, growing more and more aroused by each and every bit of her flawless, creamy skin. "You are perfection, Christine."

Beaming confidence soared through her, and she deemed that it was her turn as she silently closed the distance between them and reached for the buttons of his shirt. With nimble fingers, she unbuttoned her way down the length of his chest as he continued to regard her with ravenous eyes.

Christine discarded his clothes in the same meticulous fashion that he had used, not allowing any more than an idle, passing caress until at last, he was bared before her. Holding his eye wordlessly then, she let her palms lay flat against the scarred flesh of his chest and explored that tattered skin with trembling caresses.

"To think that you never intended for me to know of this," she whispered, her brow lined in a mixture of compassion and a pain that was solely his. "You wanted us to live as man and wife and never share any of this."

Staring at her with utter incredulousness as she traced the lines of each scar, he replied, "You truly are an angel, Christine, sent from God to save my soul. I am entirely convinced that it is true."

"I've always said the same about you, _ange_." Slowly, she leaned forward to press a reverent kiss to the top of one long, winding scar just below his collarbone, and she could feel him shudder beneath the tenderness of her caress. With her lips hovering and her breath flitting teasingly over his flesh, she breathed, "Make me yours, Erik."

It was like a dream, fleetingly bittersweet and entirely consuming, where reality and the world outside no longer existed. Erik took his time, exploring and cherishing every sculpted feature of her until he was in such a fever of desire that he felt sure he would burst.

Only then did he lay her down on his bed, and, aches and pains ignored and forgotten in the background, he lowered himself atop her, gasping as skin met skin and melded together. In one swift thrust, he made her his for all time, swallowing her brief moment of pain in kisses and utterings of undying devotion. Erik let the passion build gradually within them both, delaying release as long as he could to savour the incredibility of such a moment. And when she cried out her fulfillment, pressing her lips fervently to his, he found his as well, whispering her name over and over again under a euphoria that stole rational thought.

As his senses began to return in fragments of reality's thoughts, he became acutely aware of Christine kissing the features of his face gently and smoothing back his damp hair from his brow with fingers that still quivered from the intensity of her pleasure.

Mirroring her adoration, he pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of her shoulder and carefully lifted himself to lie beside her, delighting in the way that she immediately cuddled against him.

Leaning up on her elbow, she inquired sweetly, "So when will we leave for America?"

"Soon, …whenever you wish…." With fingers that idly brushed through her curls, he told her, "You know, for the first time in my life, I am actually anticipating the future. You have made me happier than I ever thought I could feel."

"I choose to argue that you'll be even happier yet when we have a house of our own with a handful of children running about the yard through bursts of sunlight and between blooming flower beds. A real home, Erik."

"Wherever you are, I am home." Cupping her cheek in his hand and sharing her same breath, he whispered, "I love you."

"And I love you. …I always have." With that as her vow, she laid her head in the crook of his arm, letting his warmth wash over her and knowing that she, too, had found her home.

The End


End file.
